


I Will Breathe a Mountain

by sneetchstar



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: F/M, One Shot Collection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-10
Updated: 2017-02-10
Packaged: 2018-09-23 05:49:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 20,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9643307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sneetchstar/pseuds/sneetchstar
Summary: Eleven separate one-shots inspired by poems used as lyrics for a set of songs by American composer William Bolcom.





	1. Pity Me Not Because the Light of Day

**Author's Note:**

> Pity Me Not Because the Light of Day  
> -Edna St. Vincent Millay
> 
> Pity me not because the light of day  
> At close of day no longer walks the sky;  
> Pity me not for beauties passed away  
> From field and thicket as the year goes by;  
> Pity me not the waning of the moon,  
> Nor that the ebbing tide goes out to sea,  
> Nor that a man’s desire is hushed so soon,  
> And you no longer look with love on me.  
> This have I known always: Love is no more  
> Than the wide blossom which the wind assails,  
> Than the great tide that treads the shifting shore,  
> Strewing fresh wreckage gathered in the gales:  
> Pity me that the heart is slow to learn  
> What the swift mind beholds at every turn.

Katrina can only watch. Watch what she knows will come to pass. Watch and do nothing but bear witness as her husband’s affections turn. As his feelings change.

She knows the prophecies. She knows his destiny. Has known for centuries. Knew it when she confessed her own love for him.

She knew he would only be hers for a short time. She knew the second Witness would be a woman, and _she_ would be his true soulmate.

It was foretold. It was written.

It started when he bid her farewell in Purgatory a year ago.

And now it is happening. And she must watch. That is her punishment.

Katrina is now truly the Horseman’s prize; betrayed by her own son, the son she gave away in an attempt to protect him.

Her coven was wrong to stop Jeremy’s heart and lock him away. They should have embraced him, taken him in, and taught him how to properly wield his power.

Or they should have killed him outright.

She wears her mistakes and regrets as literal chains in the cell where the Horseman - Abraham - keeps her. They weigh her down, sometimes cutting into her skin, other times, chafing it.

She has languished here a year. She knows she is lost to the world. Lost to Ichabod. In every sense of the word.

He will not be able to retrieve her here. No matter how much he may try, no matter how much he wishes for it, she is beyond his reach. The Horseman has his prize. She cannot visit Ichabod in his dreams. She can only observe. Observe as his heart’s desires turn from herself to his partner.

When she is not being forced to watch Ichabod and Miss Mills slowly find their way to one another, she longs for death. Her own. A _real_ death, a death where she will be truly at peace.

Death, proper death, would be preferable to a life — no, an existence — here. Chained. A belonging.

Yet, deep down, Katrina knows her punishment is just. Her actions, or rather the timing of them, helped to push Abraham to the brink of insanity, ultimately making him the Horseman of Death. Her actions created the monster Jeremy has become, made him turn to Moloch, made him into the Horseman of War. That knowledge, that guilt had pushed her to wrap her chains tightly around her neck in an attempt to free herself from her torment.

After what seemed like hours dangling by her neck, she had unwound the chains with a heavy sigh, resigned to her fate. There is no escape for her, no returning to the world of the living.

So, she watches. She watched as Miss Mills’ intrepid sister cleverly took advantage of her own injured state to rescue Miss Mills from purgatory. She watched as Miss Mills used the amazing technology in her “smart-phone” to find Ichabod’s casket and free him.

She watched as Ichabod and Miss Mills clung to one another after he was unearthed, both caked in dirt and blood and neither caring. She heard the whispered apologies and fervent vows of recommitment to one another.

She watched as Miss Mills motored Ichabod to his home, led him to the shower, and tucked him into bed. She watched as Miss Mills waited until he was resting comfortably before taking a shower, watched as she kept an exhausted vigil over him until she succumbed to sleep in her chair, her head slumped forward on his mattress, his hand clasped in hers.

She watched as Ichabod awoke every morning, knowing he hadn’t seen her in his dreams yet again. She watched as he went through the stages of grief. She watched as _Miss Mills_ helped him through the stages of grief.

What makes it particularly difficult is that Katrina rather _likes_ Miss Mills. If pressed to admit it, she would laud the young lieutenant as being intelligent, strong, unbelievably brave, and, yes, beautiful.

_And ideal mate for my Ichabod._

_No. Not my Ichabod._ Her _Ichabod._

It might be easier to cope with this change if she could hate Miss Mills. She could turn a cold eye on them and harden herself to their love. But, she cannot. Not even when she sees them laugh together. Not even when she sees his eyes linger on Miss Mills’ face, on her full lips. On her curves. Not even when Miss Mills lays her hand atop Ichabod’s in comfort or support, or when Ichabod unthinkingly tucks her hand into the crook of his elbow as they walk.

She cannot even hate Miss Mills — Abbie; he now calls her Abbie more often than not — when Ichabod turns to her one night in his cabin, lifts her chin with a single finger, and kisses her.

Katrina harbors no hope for Abbie’s rejection of Ichabod. She nods, just slightly, as Abbie gazes up at him, eyes wide and only slightly surprised. Her breath catches in her throat as Abbie kisses him in return, her small hands coming up to circle his neck.

Katrina even feels a small smile tug at her lips. She sighs softly, finding a shred of precious peace in the knowledge that Ichabod has found the happiness he deserves. He has found his soulmate.

Because it was foretold. It was written.


	2. How to Swing those Obbligatos Around

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How to Swing those Obbligatos Around  
> -Alice Fulton
> 
> He had shag hair & a boutique.  
> In the bar he told me I had too much class  
> to be a telephone operator & I told him  
> he should have been thirty in 1940:  
> a gangster with patent leather shoes  
> to shine under girl’s skirts & a mother  
> who called him sonny. He should have  
> crashed a club where they catered  
> to the smart set, disposing of  
> the bouncer with You spent three months  
> in a plaster cast the last time  
> you tangled with me & I should have been  
> the singer in tight champagne  
> skin waiting for him to growl  
> I don’t know how to begin  
> this beguine but you certainly know how to  
> swing those obbligatos around & we  
> would fox-trot till a guy  
> he knew from Sing Sing cut in.  
> & he said he loved old flicks  
> I should come up to his place & see  
> the art deco ashtrays on his shag rug  
> that I shouldn’t waste myself  
> at Bell tel but marry him  
> & take his business calls &  
> I said How many years do you get  
> if they give you life

I pause on the street outside the night club, checking the address once more against the dented card in my pocket. 6660 Washington Blvd.

_Club Purgatory._ No mistake, then. Just an unfortunate meeting place owned by a person with a twisted sense of humor.

I step inside, and hot jazz washes over me as I momentarily stop in the doorway. Every face in the club turns to look at me. Every shade of brown, from lightest beige to nearly black, stares at me: a tall, white Englishman (though they surely cannot know that last detail by looking at me) standing in the doorway of what is clearly a colored jazz club.

I square my shoulders and head inside, making my way to the bar. As I pass through, I can read the patrons’ thoughts as though they are written on their faces.

_What is he doing here?_

_Who does this cat think he is?_

_Not a cop. A cop wouldn_ _’_ _t be that obvious._

I take a seat at the bar beside a woman in a yellow dress.

“You lost, Sugar?”

I turn to look at her, and am momentarily dumbstruck by her beauty. Large, dark brown eyes framed by impossibly long lashes, a pert, perfect nose, and full, lush lips painted a dark, shiny red. Her hair is long, falling in soft waves around her shoulders, and her skin is flawless and brown, like the creamiest milk chocolate.

“Sugar?” she prompts.

“I beg your pardon,” I apologize, finding my tongue. “No, I am not lost. I believe I am precisely where I am required to be.”

She smirks and nods once. “All right, Sugar, but you sure don’t sound like you’re from this neighborhood.”

I chuckle softly, taking another moment to soak in her beauty. “May I purchase you a beverage, Miss?” I ask, glancing at her mostly empty drink. It appears to be a vodka gimlet.

“Sure,” she says, waving to the barman. He’d been ignoring me. “Clancy,” she calls. He reluctantly comes over.

“Another vodka gimlet for the lady, and I would like a whiskey on the rocks,” I say, reaching for my wallet. Noting his reticence, I place a crisp five-dollar note on the bar.

He ponders the note a moment before snatching it up and placing it in his pocket.

“Big spender,” my beautiful companion observes. “So, if you are precisely where you are required to be, what are you doin’ here?”

Clancy brings our drinks, very nearly slamming them on the bar, and retreats.

“I am looking for a man,” I say, sipping my drink, closing my eyes a moment while it burns down my throat.

“Oh… I see… I always did wonder about you British types,” she says, her luscious lips curving into a crafty smile.

“What? No. I am not looking for a man in _that_ regard, thank you very much, ” I say, affronted. I look around. Several people are watching me with interest. Any one of them could be my contact. “I am looking for a particular man. A man with a wooden leg… named Smith,” I say, as clearly as I can without being _too_ obvious.

She lifts her glass to her lips, her eyes locked on me as she drinks. She sets her glass down, licks the moisture from her upper lip (a _very_ distracting maneuver), and places her hand on my knee (also quite distracting).

“What’s the name of his other leg?” she asks, leaning towards me in a rather enticing fashion.

I blink. I swallow. No. It can’t be. This gorgeous creature before me _cannot_ be my contact. There is no way this petite beauty can be a spy. My eyes unwittingly rake over her slender, curvy form. Where on earth would she hide a weapon?

She winks and smiles. “Dance with me,” she declares, sliding gracefully from her barstool.

“Pardon?”

“You _can_ dance, right? ”

“Of course, I can,” I answer.

“Then, come on, Sugar, let’s cut a rug,” she takes my hand and pulls me towards the dance floor. _Moonlight Serenade_ is just beginning, a slow song, for which I am thankful. I can dance fairly well, but am fearful I will not be able to keep up with the other dancers on the floor.

As we walk, it strikes me how _truly_ tiny this woman is. She is wearing heels, but still only reaches up to my shoulder.

“We can speak more freely in the middle of the crowd,” she explains in my ear, pulling my shoulder down so she can reach it. “Hold me nice and close, Sugar.”

I happily comply, sliding my arm around her back, fitting her curves against me, her small hand clasped in mine against my chest.

She fits nicely. Almost unsettlingly so.

“What is your name, Love?” I ask, bending my head closer to hers.

“You may call me Mills,” she says. “That’s all you need to know right now.”

“In that case, you may call me Crane,” I answer, smirking. “That is all _you_ need know right now. ”

“Fair enough, Sugar,” she says.

I believe she is going to keep calling me “Sugar” no matter what, despite the fact I’ve just told her my name.

I also believe I find this acceptable.

I can feel her fingers toying with my hair. It’s longer than the current fashion, but held neatly back in a queue at the nape of my neck. She’s found it and is idly twirling it around and around as we dance. I try not to let it distract me.

“Is he here tonight?” I ask.

“Haven’t seen him yet,” she answers.

“You know what he looks like, then?”

“I do. He’s pretty unforgettable.”

“I never forget anything,” I say. I cannot for the life of me fathom why I felt the need to divulge this information.

“Oh, really?” she asks.

“It is a blessing and a curse,” I tell her with a sigh. “For example, I shall always remember this dance with sparkling clarity. How you look in that dress. The steps we’ve executed to this song. Every word spoken. The note the second trumpet missed a moment ago.” I pause as she giggles. “How you feel in my arms, how your body feels against mine. The scent of jasmine from your hair,” I add, softer. Somehow, she seems to have moved closer while I was talking.

“Wow,” she says, staring up at me. “Why is that a curse?” she asks.

“Because I fear this will be the only time I experience this,” I say, allowing myself to get lost in her big brown eyes.

Then, I blink, straighten up a bit, and snap myself out of it. I cannot become distracted. “Forgive me,” I apologize. “I should not have said such things.”

Her thumb strokes the back of my neck, causing my eyes to close involuntarily. “Don’t sweat it, Sugar, I like you, too,” she says. “You got a watch?”

She likes me, too?

“Hmm? Oh, yes,” I say, releasing her hand (which she leaves on my chest) to retrieve my pocket watch. “It is 10:52.”

“He’ll be here soon,” she says. “He always arrives at 11 sharp. Likes to make an entrance.”

“Perhaps I should… intercept him. So as not to cause a scene and disrupt these good people,” I say, my eyes darting around the room.

“Give it two more minutes. I ain’t done dancin’ with you yet,” she says. Then, she rests her head on my shoulder.

“Why does he frequent a colored establishment?” I ask softly.

“Because he thinks it makes him look open-minded instead of the piece of Nazi shit he is,” she answers, lifting her head from my shoulder. “Surprised he don’t hang out at the synagogue, if that’s his ploy.”

I snort. “He’s not _that_ clever, ” I say. I check my watch again. “Time to go, Love,” I whisper.

She nods and takes my hand, leading me to a side door. I see her catch Clancy the barman’s eye, who subtly nods at her. I wonder how much he knows.

We exit the club and find ourselves in an alley.

“He comes through here first,” she whispers. “Sometimes, I meet him out here, and—” she stops suddenly and steps out into the light. “Hey, Baby,” she says, reaching up to hug a very tall, thin man. He’s pale and blonde, like a proper Nazi, and quite possibly the ugliest individual I have ever seen.

And this lovely flower is embracing him and calling him “Baby.” I’m certain this is a ruse on her part. Nevertheless, it makes my gorge rise.

Weapon drawn, I bide my time in the shadows, listening to them speak. He is not pleasant or even respectful to Miss Mills. Impatient. Grousing about being late because she is delaying him.

It is disgusting. No woman should be treated this way.

He has two bodyguards with him. I have six shots. I will only need half of them.

I hear Miss Mills apologize again and see him raise a hand to her. I aim my pistol and fire three shots in rapid succession.

I am grateful Miss Mills is petite.

I step into the alley and take her hand. She throws her arms around me, pressing her face into my chest. “You’re a very good shot,” she says.

“It is my job to be so,” I say, smoothing my hand over her hair. I look down at the fallen men. Three clean head shots. Accurate. Tidy. “I cannot abide any man who will strike a woman,” I mutter.

“I can hold my own,” she says, raising her chin defiantly.

“I’ve no doubt of that,” I say, smirking down at her. I reach up and allow myself the indulgence of stroking her cheek with my finger. It is warm and velvet-soft. “Come, I must call my superior and inform him the job is complete,” I say. We start walking, and I take her hand and place it in the bend of my elbow as we emerge from the alley.

“I can’t come with you,” she says, stopping beside my car. “It ain’t right, me bein’ seen with a white man like this.”

I step very close to her. “We are not going anywhere public, Love,” I say, my voice low. I lean across her to open the passenger door to my car.

She regards me a moment, biting her lower lip enchantingly. “Irving will flip his wig if he found out we were…”

“Fraternizing?” I ask, raising an eyebrow at her.

“I was gonna say ‘fooling around,’ but your way makes it sound kinda classy,” she grins, climbing into the car.

I gently close the door, walk around to the driver’s side, and slide behind the wheel. “Well, then, we shall just leave that particular detail out, won’t we?” I ask. I start the engine. “Even so, he’ll be in a good mood now that Moloch has been properly dealt with,” I add.

“Maybe I’ll finally get a day off,” she sighs, looking over at me. “You really are something, Sugar.” She places her hand on my leg.

She’s quite forward. I like it.

“So are you,” I answer. I reach across and stroke her cheek again. “You are extraordinarily beautiful,” I whisper. The car behind me honks. I’ve been sitting at this stop sign far too long. Miss Mills laughs, and I press the accelerator.

“Thank you,” she says, squeezing my thigh. My foot reflexively presses the pedal a little harder. She laughs again. “You’re pretty easy on the eyes, yourself, there.”

“I presume all that hugging and ‘Baby’ nonsense was an act,” I grouse. I regret my words immediately. Jealousy, thou art a cruel mistress.

“Jealous, Sugar?” she asks, lightly rubbing my leg.

“I’ve no right,” I admit. “I’ve only just met you… yet…”

“I know,” she answers softly, “I feel the same way. Like there’s this… connection…”

“Yes,” I answer hoarsely. Her hand is resting higher on my thigh.

“And, of course, I was fakin’. Moloch is - was - vile. I told him I was a telephone operator. He thought I was a bit lacking in smarts.” She snorts a laugh and looks out the window. “How much longer till we’re at your place, anyway?”

“Nearly there,” I say, glancing at my speedometer. I do not normally exceed the posted speed limit, but I seem to be doing a fine job of it this evening.

“Good,” she says, sliding her hand again. Inward. Good gracious.

I pull into the motel lot, kill the engine, quickly exit, and hurry around to open Miss Mills’ door for her.

She steps out and looks around a moment. She grabs my lapels and pulls me down to her, kissing me hard.

My head swims, and I think I groan. It feels so good. Right, somehow.

She releases me, but keeps me close, her fingertips taking a moment to run through my short beard. “Take me inside, Sugar,” she whispers.

“With pleasure, Love, ”  I growl, pulling her to my door. I scramble with the key, cursing my fumbling fingers.

For the love of all that is holy, I may as well be an adolescent.

By the time I open the door, she is laughing at me again, but I do not care at all. The sound of her laughter only inflames me further. The door closes behind me with a decisive _click_ and I press her against the wood, closing my lips over hers once more.

“You intoxicate me like no one ever has,” I murmur against her lips, my hands caressing her face, her hips.

She moans, pulling the tie from my hair, her fingers massaging my scalp. “Sugar… call Irving before he decides to come knockin’,” she gasps while I trail kisses down her neck.

“Irving… yes, of course.” I emerge from the crook of her neck, plant one more small kiss on her lips, and release her from where I’ve got her pinned against the door.

She sits on the bed, kicking off her shoes.

“Don’t move,” I say. She blows me a kiss and I make the call.

“This had better be Crane,” Irving’s surly voice greets me.

“Yes, Sir. The target has been dealt with. Plus two.”

“Bodyguards?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“And your contact?”

“Mills is quite safe, Sir,” I say, looking over at her, loosening my tie. My eyes widen, watching as she lifts her skirt, exposing her knees, then her thighs. She withdraws a small pistol from her garter and sets it on the nightstand. She winks at me while I openly gape.

“Crane!” Irving yells. My attention was elsewhere.

“Forgive me, Sir. You were saying?”

“Where are the bodies?”

“In the alley to the north of the meeting location,” I say, grunting slightly as I shrug out of my coat.

“Crane, what the hell are you doing?”

“Just removing my jacket, Sir,” I say.

“Yeah, I need to hit the hay, too. Get some sleep. Check in tomorrow,” he says.

“Yes, Sir. Good night, Sir.” I hang up the phone, pull my feet from my shoes, and return to Miss Mills, lounging on the bed.

“Mmm, ‘quite safe,’ eh, Sugar?” she purrs, pulling me down beside her. She slides her fingers into my hair and presses her lips to mine again. Her lips are lush; her tongue, sweet.

“Miss Mills,” I mutter, my fingers searching for a zipper as my hands caress her back, “what is your first name?”

“Abbie,” she breathes, unbuttoning my shirt.

“Abbie,” I repeat. “Abbie…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This poem had kind of a 1940s Swing vibe, so I went with it.


	3. The Crazy Woman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Crazy Woman  
> -Gwendolyn Brooks
> 
> I shall not sing a May song.  
> A May song should be gay.  
> I’ll wait until November  
> And sing a song of gray.
> 
> I’ll wait until November,  
> That is the time for me.  
> I’ll go out in the frosty dark  
> And sing most terribly.
> 
> And all the little people  
> Will stare at me and say,  
> “That is the Crazy Woman  
> Who would not sing in May.”

When she kissed him, it was a surprise to both of them. Overcome with elation about their latest triumph over evil, Abbie acted impulsively – which never happens – and kissed Crane. Somewhere deep down, perhaps subconsciously, she knew a fist bump would not suffice this time.

They had managed to banish Andy. For good. Andy, killed at least three times, was finally put to rest, no more to be tormented by Moloch. No more to torment Abbie.

It was spring. Birds were chirping, flowers blooming, young couples canoodling. Spring, the time of rebirth and renewal. The time of love ‘being in the air’.

And she kissed him. Ichabod Crane. Crane, her partner, her rock. Crane, her best friend. Crane, who was _almost_ over mourning his now-forever-lost wife.

Crane, who has somehow worked himself into her heart. He is cantankerous, arrogant, and supercilious, but, in many ways, he is a lost puppy: naïve, sweet, eager to please, only wanting to find his way. To not feel so awkward in this strange, scary world.

And she kissed him.

It was neither a big kiss nor a deep, soul-wrenching kiss that leaves one breathless and wanting more.

It wasn’t even a particularly long kiss.

She’d grabbed his face, and just _planted_ one on him.

She immediately apologized.

“I… I’m sorry… I don’t know what came over me… I…”

“No, no, it’s… quite all right. We were both feeling quite joyous… it’s fine.”

His face was redder than she’s ever seen it, save the times it’s been covered in blood. Her palms tingled as she remembered the texture of his beard against them. Her lips tingled as she remembered _his_ lips against them. Her stomach fluttered.

She decided to chalk that last one up to mortification. It was safer that way.

“I’ll just… take you home, then.”

“All right. Will you be staying for a cup of tea or a bite of dinner?”

“I don’t think so.”

Ten seconds of silence.

“Very well.”

 

xXx

 

When _he_ kissed _her_ , it was neither accidental nor impulsive. When Ichabod Crane kissed Abbie Mills, it was most definitely intentional. Like nearly everything he does.

The kiss, back in May, was filed under _Never to be Mentioned Again_ and it seemed to have been forgotten by July.

It hadn’t.

But, neither of them ever mentioned it again.

Even though it plagued Crane’s thoughts as he drifted to sleep (and, occasionally, his dreams continued with what she had started), he never mentioned it, not wishing to embarrass his partner. No matter how much he grew to wish they _had_ continued.

Even though Abbie’s mind would occasionally replay that moment (the moment when her lips touched his, his scent invading her nostrils, his beard tickling her chin), she never mentioned it. She was too embarrassed. Too afraid to admit her feelings. Even to herself. _Especially_ to herself.

Come October, things were hectic as Halloween approached, and they didn’t have time to get lost in their own thoughts. They didn’t have time to contemplate things like meals or changing clothes or sleep, much less entertain thoughts of personal feelings and kisses that never should have happened.

Then November came, and with it, the holiday season, and Abbie braced herself for another gray period of Morose Crane, lamenting his loneliness over the holidays. She practiced biting her tongue so she wouldn’t yell, “You’re not alone, damn you! You have me, don’t you see that?” when he would inevitably complain.

Not that she could entirely blame him.

But, he didn’t complain this year. He even invited Abbie and Jenny over to his cabin for Thanksgiving dinner – a _proper_ Thanksgiving dinner, with venison, not turkey.

Jenny begged off, saying there was no way she was having deer for Thanksgiving.

However, a week before Thanksgiving, Jenny got hurt. Badly.

It was a battle injury, no one’s fault save the demon that incapacitated Jenny.

“Hey,” Jenny opened her eyes and rasped from her hospital bed. Abbie clutched her sister’s hand, Crane hovering nearby.

“You’re awake!” Abbie gasped.

“Yeah. Imma be okay.” Jenny closed her eyes. “You can go home now.”

“No, I’m going to stay,” Abbie said.

“I need rest. I won’t rest if I’m worrying about you while you’re worrying about me,” she chuckled once, opening her eyes. She glanced between her sister and Crane. “Go on, get the hell out of here, and take your tall shadow with you.” Jenny smiled weakly, squeezed Abbie’s hand once, and withdrew it. She nodded, ever so slightly, at Crane, and closed her eyes.

“Miss Mills,” Crane said softly, his hands landing on her shoulders, squeezing gently. “We should honor Miss Jenny’s wishes.” He feels Abbie slump, relaxing slightly, as she lets out a weary breath.

“Fine. I’ll take you home.”

She pulled up to the cabin after a quiet drive.

“Please come in. You should not be alone now,” Crane said softly, turning to her before exiting the car.

“I’m okay.”

“I insist.”

Ten seconds of silence.

“Very well.”

He guided her inside and looked after her every need.

Finally, Crane sits beside her on the couch after stoking the fire. She scoots closer and leans against him.

He doesn’t stiffen or move away.

“Abbie…” he starts.

“Shh.”

He wraps his arm around her shoulder.

“I was afraid I’d lost her again,” Abbie says at length, staring at the dancing flames in the fireplace. “I lost her once. I can’t do it now. I can’t be alone. I can’t.”

“You are not alone,” he says softly. “Just as I am not alone. We have each other. I know this now, deep in my heart.”

She looks up at him, eyes wide with wonder at his words. He takes her hand and places it over his heart, holding it there, pressing it to his chest so she can feel his heartbeat. Abbie stares at their hands, then slowly, bravely lifts her eyes to his, searching. Crane meets her gaze, and when he moves his hand, hers remains in place, small and warm.

“Miss Jenny will heal. She won’t leave you.” His voice is soft like velvet, washing over her as he brings his hand to her cheek now, caressing it once. “And neither will I.” 

Then, he kisses her.

It is not a quick, hard kiss, like the jubilant one Abbie gave him six months ago.

It is slow. Soft.

Loving.

“This is crazy,” Abbie whispers against his lips when he gently pulls away. Before he can speak, she curls her fingers into his shirt and kisses him again, melting into his embrace as his arms wrap around her.


	4. Just Once

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just Once  
> -Anne Sexton
> 
> Just once I knew what life was for.  
> In Boston, quite suddenly, I understood;  
> walked there along the Charles River,  
> watched the lights copying themselves,  
> all neoned and strobe-hearted, opening  
> their mouths as wide as opera singers;  
> counted the stars, my little campaigners,  
> my scar daisies, and knew that I walked my love  
> on the night green side of it and cried  
> my heart to the eastbound cars and cried  
> my heart to the westbound cars and took  
> my truth across a small humped bridge  
> and hurried my truth, the charm of it, home  
> and hoarded these constants into morning  
> only to find them gone.

“Boston has changed considerably,” Crane comments as he and Abbie stroll down the street, following the Freedom Trail as it winds its way through town, passing Historical Sites Not To Be Missed.

“Of course, it has,” Abbie chuckles. “It’s been a long time, Crane.”

“Here and there I see familiar things. Buildings, mainly. I am quite pleased the North Church is still a church and not a…” he shudders slightly, “Starbucks.”

Abbie laughs louder now. “We do preserve important historical landmarks. The Old North Church is one of them.”

“‘Old’ North Church,” he mutters.

“Well…”

“Yes, yes, I know,” he says scowling. They’d seen several places he recalled from his previous life. The State House. Faneuil Hall (still a marketplace, but the wares for sale are _quite_ different now). Paul Revere ’s house. Several cemeteries. They’d stopped going into the cemeteries because Crane saw too many familiar names. So, as they pass one, Abbie pretends she doesn’t notice it and keeps walking.

They stop on the Charlestown Bridge, leaning their elbows on the rails, watching the reflections of the lights on the water.

“Thank you for bringing me here, Miss Mills,” Crane says after a moment.

“This isn’t exactly a vacation, Crane. We’re working,” she answers. They came to Boston to meet with a man at the Paul Revere House museum. All went well (the man was very accommodating), and they will be returning to Sleepy Hollow in the morning..

“True, but you did not need to take me ‘sight-seeing,’ as you call it,” he says, smiling down at her.

“You’re welcome,” she answers, patting his hand. To her surprise, he turns his hand and threads their fingers together. His hand is twice the size of hers, almost completely engulfing it. “I’m glad you’re enjoying it. I only hope it hasn’t brought up too many painful memories.”

He sighs. “Katrina and I had always planned to come back here once the war was over. Spend the weekend at an inn, pampering ourselves… and other… things…” he trails off, face flushing with embarrassment as he looks away from Abbie and stares out over the river. He attempts to withdraw his hand from Abbie’s, but she squeezes it reassuringly.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” she says. “You were in love. You were married. It’s perfectly normal.” She pauses a moment. “I’m sorry you never got the chance to take your little getaway.”

“And now, we never shall,” he says quietly. “Forgive me,” he apologizes after a moment. “I thought I had finished lamenting.”

Abbie smiles understandingly. “It’s only been six months, Crane. You’re allowed to mourn as long as you need. The process is different for everyone.”

His eyes return to hers. “Most of the time I am at peace. But, there are moments when I feel the pain of her loss sharply once again. Usually, something triggers it. The sun shining on auburn tresses belonging to a woman I do not know. The smell of roses. The cornbreadyou boughtfrom the market last month.”

“Oh,” Abbie says. She remembers puzzling over how he was enjoying the cornbread, yet seemed sad as well.

Crane smiles and nods slightly, knowing what she recalls. “Apple pie. She made wonderful apple pie.”

Abbie looks up at him, shocked. “That was Corbin’s favorite. The man was positively obsessed.”

“Truly?” he asks, intrigued.

“Yeah. I… I haven’t been able to eat it since he died,” she admits. “And it’s been over a year since he was killed.” They lapse into silence for a moment, lost in their individual memories.

She nudges him with her shoulder.

“Fate has a dark sense of humor, I believe,” he says.

Abbie chuckles once. “Apple pie, of all the damn things…”

“There are no coincidences when it comes to you and me, Miss Mills,” he sighs. Then, he surprises her again and casually lifts their joined hands to his lips, softly kissing the back of her hand.

It feels natural, as if it is something he does every day. He did it without thinking and now quickly looks away as if something else has caught his attention.

Abbie says nothing, pondering the easy companionship they have.

She breaks the silence after a few minutes. “Come on. I want some ice cream.”

“Indeed,” he agrees, and they step away from the railing. He keeps her hand in his, but she untwines their fingers and holds his hand instead.

“My fingers were too spread,” she mumbles. Then, she looks up at him. “Your hands are, like, twice as big as mine, you know.”

He chuckles and nods, gently squeezing her hand once.

As they walk, he occasionally strokes the back of her hand with his thumb. She realizes she is walking closer to him than usual.

They share a turtle sundae, dripping with hot fudge and caramel and pecans. She wipes caramel from his beard. He lets her eat the maraschino cherry, since there is only one.

That night, they sleep with the doors between their adjoining hotel rooms open. Just in case the memories become too much to bear alone.


	5. Never More Will the Wind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Never More Will the Wind  
> -H.D. (pen name for Hilda Doolittle)
> 
> Never more will the wind  
> cherish you again,  
> never more will the rain.
> 
> Never more  
> shall we find you bright  
> in the snow and wind.
> 
> The snow is melted,  
> the snow is gone,  
> and you are flown:
> 
> Like a bird out of our hand,  
> like a light out of our heart,  
> you are gone.

“Abbie, I…” Crane starts and stops, at a loss for words.

For once.

He stands in her living room, looking down at her upturned face, the soft light from the table lamp giving her dark skin a golden glow.

For three years, they’ve been partners. For three years, they’ve been battling evil, trying to keep the world from ending.

For _two_ years, Abbie and Crane have been closer than either of them has ever been to another person. From the moment they were reunited in the world after being imprisoned in purgatory and underground respectively, they have rarely parted ways. Katrina returned to her place in purgatory so that Abbie could return to the world and fulfill her purpose.

Crane has hardly let his Miss Mills out of his sight since that moment, Katrina’s final words having long sunk deeply into his soul. “Look after her, Ichabod, and seek me no more. This place is _my_ fate, not hers. I release your heart so that it may freely bind with another. ”

And now he stands, staring down at Abbie’s beautiful face, tongue-tied, as the snow melts from their boots, leaving wet spots on the carpet.

“Crane?” she finally prompts. He opens his mouth once again. He abandons words once again. “Ichabod?” she asks, softer.

He decides to act instead. He steps forward and places a (slightly trembling) hand on her waist. His other hand finds her cheek, his long fingers stroking the incredibly soft skin.

His movements are deliberate, precise, measured.

Giving her the opportunity to refuse him.

Praying she won’t.

He leans down, his eyes locked onto hers until, at the last moment, they drop to her full, slightly-parted lips.

His lips brush hers and her eyes flutter closed.

He kisses her fully, and her hands slide up his chest until her arms circle his neck.

He introduces his tongue, and her lips part willingly for him, her fingers delving into his hair.

Crane’s hand slides around her waist, pulling her body flush against his. Her tongue meets his again and again, small and soft, yet strong, like the rest of her.

“Abbie,” he gasps, his voice hoarse with emotion. With need.

“Ichabod,” she whispers in reply, her fingertips stroking his beard as he rests his forehead against hers, his hand cradling the back of her head, supporting it.

“I…”

“I know,” she says, kissing him. “I know… me, too.”

He groans and kisses her again, her lips feeling better than he imagined they would. He tries to pull her closer, only to find it’s no longer possible. There is no space between them that can be filled; every inch of her that can be touching him is pressed firmly against the hard planes of his body.

Yet, it is not enough.

It will never be enough.

“My love,” he murmurs, moving his lips to the edge of her jaw, the line of her throat.

“Show me,” she answers, pushing his coat from his shoulders. He shakes it off and tosses it to a chair with uncharacteristic carelessness. It misses, hitting the ground instead.

Crane doesn’t notice. He is too busy lifting Abbie into his arms, carrying her back to her bedroom.

He had only been in her room once before, a year ago, when she was ill. At that time, he felt slightly uncomfortable being in such an intimate location. The place where she sleeps. Dresses. Her private sanctuary.

Now, he can think of no place he’d rather be.

He sets her on the bed with infinite care, laying her against the pillows. It’s only when he sees her lying there looking so beautiful against the soft gray comforter, that he pauses.

“Abbie, if you do not wish for…”

“I do,” she cuts him off, reaching for his hand. “I want this. I want _you._ ” She kisses his palm, and it sends a jolt up his arm.

“I’ve waited so long,” he whispers, sitting at her feet.

“Me, too,” she softly admits. “What have we been waiting _for_? ”

He looks at her a moment, pondering. “I haven’t a clue,” he finally says, chuckling. He leans across her body to kiss her. “Perhaps, we were each afraid the other felt differently,” he theorizes, kissing her again. “Thankfully, that does not seem to be the case.” She smiles and he kisses her one more time, longer, before returning to her feet, where he painstakingly unties and removes her boots, then her socks. He lifts one small foot and kisses the sole before setting it back on the bed.

Crane moves back towards her head and leans down to kiss her once more, bracing his hand on the mattress as he looms over her.

“You are so brave, so wise, so… formidable… that I forget how wonderfully tiny you are,” he says, nuzzling her nose once. She smiles, lifts her chin, and kisses him, her fist bunching his shirt, keeping him in place. She was a little concerned that his beard would be uncomfortable, but finds she doesn’t mind it at all.

No. She _likes_ it. Her free hand comes up and touches his face, rubbing her thumb over the surprisingly soft facial hair.

He groans low in his throat and pulls away. “I must remove my own boots,” he says, pecking her lips sweetly. He sits upright and bends to pull his boots and socks from his feet. He stands and quickly sets them by a chair across the room. One boot falls over, but he doesn’t bother righting it.

Abbie shifts, pulling the bedclothes back, tossing throw pillows to the floor. Crane turns back to her and smiles, watching her crawl around on the large bed.

She turns and sees him, tall and lean and barefoot, watching her, his blue eyes dark.

She bites her lip. “Take your shirt off,” she quietly orders, seated in the middle of the bed.

“Of course, my lady,” he purrs, making quick work of his shirt, dropping it on the chair. Then, he crosses to the bed and sits sideways, facing her, one leg hanging off the side.

She moves closer to him, leans forward, and kisses the pink skin of the raised scar on his chest. Six inches long and half an inch wide, it is the only thing marring his perfect body.

But, Abbie finds it beautiful, because it is a part of him. She kisses it once more, then looks up to see his eyes are closed, his jaw slack, and his breathing a bit shallow. She kisses his collarbone, then his neck, and feels his hand on her back beneath her shirt, sliding down, then back up, his fingers splayed on her soft skin.

“Oh…” he sighs. Her lips return to his, only to pull away so she can yank her own top off over her head.

Crane’s eyes rove over her bared torso for a moment, drinking her in. He groans appreciatively and bends down, kissing her neck as he eases her back down on the bed. He trails wet kisses, tracing the line of her collarbone with his tongue, and eases her bra strap from her shoulder, chasing it with his lips.

Abbie’s hands explore his torso, familiarizing themselves with his lines and muscles. She smiles, tipping her head back to allow him better access to her neck, remembering how she was pleasantly surprised the first time she saw him shirtless.

“Why are you grinning, Treasure?” he asks softly, pulling down the other strap. “And, how does one remove this garment?”

Abbie arches her back and reaches behind, quickly freeing the clasp. “I’m grinning because I’m happy,” she says. “I’m happy being here with you.”

He kisses her, then lifts his head, suddenly serious. “Is this selfish of us? To indulge ourselves in this way?”

She pauses a moment, thinking. “I think we’ve earned the right to be a little self-indulgent once in a while, don’t you?”

“As always, you make a compelling argument, Miss Mills,” he says. He kisses her once, gives her a smoldering look, then moves his attention back to her opened bra, still draped over her chest.

He removes it with great care, Abbie lifting her arms to aid him in discarding it.

“Beautiful,” Crane whispers in adoration before dropping his head to bestow soft kisses across her breasts. He gradually works his way to one nipple, which is already stiff in anticipation of his kiss.

“Mmm,” Abbie moans softly, her fingers delving into his hair, pulling the tie holding it back and throwing it. His soft hair falls around his face, tickling her breasts as he continues to lavish attention on them with his lips and tongue. “Oh…” she sighs.

She reaches for the waist of his pants, popping the buttons and shoving somewhat impatiently at them.

“Patience, my love,” he softly says, lifting his head to her lips again.

“Three damn years and you’re still buying your clothes from that reenactment group,” she mutters as he lifts up to remove his pants. “At least you’re wearing modern undies,” she smiles.

“I’ve found them to be far superior in comfort and support,” Crane says absently, kneeling on the bed and glancing down at the pair of navy blue boxer briefs currently covering him. Then, he reaches down and unbuttons her jeans, pulling the zipper down as well. Bending forward, he kisses her stomach, dipping his tongue into her navel. “I will admit, I have been quite curious about what _your_ undergarments look like. ” He kisses her stomach again and pulls on her jeans as she lifts her hips to help.

Abbie’s wearing a pair of purple hipster panties with little black polka dots. Crane smiles, clearly amused and aroused by them. “Hmm,” he ponders them a moment, then rolls her onto her stomach to get the back view. “Oh, my,” he breathes, tracing his fingers along the bottom edges, where the lower quarter of her lovely, rounded backside is exposed. “Those are quite… hot…”

Abbie squeaks in surprise when she feels his lips where his fingers had just been, kissing each cheek in turn.

He flips her over, hooks his fingers into the waistband, and removes her panties, dropping them gently to the floor. Now completely exposed to his scrutiny, Abbie gazes up at Crane as his eyes rake over her form.

“You are truly a vision to behold,” he says softly. “Flawless.”

Though she suspects his judgment may be clouded, she says nothing, choosing to soak up the compliment, enjoying the love and desire evident on his face. He touches the curve of her hip, caresses her inner thigh, and her legs part wider for him. His eyes darken, and he accepts the invitation, cupping his large hand over her warmth a moment before venturing two fingers further. The moment he touches her so intimately, she cries out softly, squirming on the bed. His lips curve into a tiny smile as he softly strokes her a few more times.

“Oh… now, you,” she whispers, lifting her foot and rubbing his thigh. Crane removes his fingers and kisses her knee, a pleasurable hum rumbling from him.

He stands and quickly divests himself of his underwear, and Abbie’s eyes involuntarily drop to his groin. She feels a delicious flutter in her stomach and liquid heat pools between her thighs at the sight of him. His recent words reverberate in her brain. “Far superior in comfort and support.” _Support is something he definitely needs_ _…_ “ You are beautiful, Ichabod,” she whispers, holding a hand out to him.

He takes her hand and kisses the inside of her wrist. He then prowls up over her body, occasionally dropping kisses as he goes. Abbie’s hand finds him, wanting to feel his impressive member, to familiarize herself with every inch of him.

He grunts softly as her small, strong fingers wrap around him. “Abbie,” he rasps her name against her neck, “do you have any of those… _things_? ”

“‘Things?’ Oh. Those,” she manages, groping with her free hand into her nightstand drawer. “Yeah… a few…” She pulls out a half-full box of condoms, glances quickly at the expiration date, then pulls one out and sets it on the bed next to them.

“Thank God,” Crane breathes, claiming Abbie’s lips with his, kissing her with a passion she had only read about, never dreaming it could be real.

As he kisses her, he gently removes her hand from his length, silently conveying exactly how much he was enjoying her attention, yet needing her to stop. Abbie smiles into their kiss and slides her hand around to grab his firm backside. When he slides a single finger between her wet folds, her short fingernails dig in.

“Crane,” she moans. His lips suck at her neck, and he slides two fingers inside her, slowly moving them in and out. He then removes his fingers and circles them around her sensitive nub. “ _Ichabod_ _…_ ” She arches beneath him.

Crane gropes for the condom with his free hand, and Abbie takes it from him, not wanting him to stop what he’s doing in order to open the packet.

“Thank you,” he mutters, returning his lips to her breasts.

Abbie pushes up sideways against him. He takes the hint and rolls them so she is on top, surprised, but willing to comply with whatever she wants.

She leans down and kisses him, whispering, “Trust me,” and scoots back, sitting on his thighs so she can place the condom on him.

“Oh…” His fingers grip her thighs in anticipation as she leans over him, kisses him once more, and guides him inside her, slowly settling down over him.

“Mmm,” she purrs, her lips locked onto his as she rocks her hips, Crane meeting her stroke for stroke. They are perfectly in sync; moving as one, as though their minds are joined along with their bodies.

His hands slide down her back, long, strong fingers caressing, then gripping her backside. She releases his lips and sucks on his ear, biting the lobe hard enough to draw a delicious growl from his throat. He kisses her shoulder, licking her sweet, sweaty skin.

“Oh,” she breathes, moving faster. He keeps pace with her, and they climb, pulling one another along to the pinnacle. It’s unclear who is leading whom, but it doesn’t matter. They’re making this climb together, joined in mind, body, and spirit, climbing as high as they can until they leap.

And soar like birds.

Together.

“Oh, God, Abbie!”

“Ichab…”

Abbie collapses over Crane, tucking her head into his neck. He wraps his arms around her, and they cling to one another for as long as they can. Until their heartbeats slow and their breathing returns to normal. Until they feel as though they are once again on earth.

“I can hear your heartbeat,” she says, delicately sliding to lie beside him, her head on his chest.

“What is it saying?” he asks, kissing the top of her head.

“My name,” she says, smiling into his chest.


	6. The Sage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Sage  
> -Denise Levertov
> 
> The cat is eating the roses:  
> that’s the way he is.  
> Don’t stop him, don’t stop  
> the world going round,  
> that’s the way things are.  
> The third of May  
> was misty; fourth of May  
> who knows. Sweep  
> the rose-meat up, throw the bits  
> out in the rain.  
> He never eats  
> every crumb, says  
> the hearts are bitter.  
> That’s the way he is, he knows  
> the world and the weather.

I watch him sometimes. When he’s reading something. When I’m supposed to be doing my own research. When he’s gazing out of the car window at a stoplight.

He doesn’t know I do this.

I hope he doesn’t, anyway.

I have to admit, he is a fascinating man. He doesn’t even try, either. Some people attempt to be interesting, like these idiot hipsters with their awful fedoras, stupid handlebar mustaches, “ironic” t-shirts, and disdain for things normal people like.

Not him. He just _is._ He ’s more himself than any person I’ve ever met, except, perhaps, Jenny. And _she_ was institutionalized for it.

He was almost institutionalized for being himself as well.

Maybe it’s because he’s from a different era. Maybe it’s because he, like my sister, has taken great risks in being who he is and doesn’t give a rat’s ass about what anyone thinks of him.

I wish I had that kind of confidence.

He walks around town in Colonial-Era clothing, casual as can be, speaking the King’s English, behaving like a perfect gentleman (I can’t remember the last time I opened my own door in his presence). People may _look_ at him, but as soon as anyone spends five minutes with the guy, that person is _completely_ charmed.

He _is_ charming. When he’s not being bitchy, that is. And even then, he’s still kind of charming. He’s handsome, too (I will admit), with his sharp blue eyes and flowing wavy hair and those eyebrows that can speak volumes with one twitch.

But, I digress.

I think that’s one of the reasons Luke was suspicious of him. He seems too good to be true. Charming, polite, handsome, and wickedly smart. To Luke’s mind, Crane has to have _some_ dark secret. Of course, I know what that secret is. Luke doesn ’t.

He’s fascinating to watch. Sometimes, he is still as a statue, deep in thought. Sometimes, his fingers give him away, flexing and twitching as his excitement (or anxiety) grows. Sometimes, he’s like a child, making a discovery that either delights or disgusts him. Those are my favorite times. The doughnut holes. The energy drink. The Scotch tape on my desk.

Oh, God, the Internet. He finally confessed he’d “unintentionally viewed some lascivious material involving a young woman dressed in a wildly inappropriate fashion” on my laptop. After I swallowed my laughter (he was clearly horrified), I delicately explained how the Internet is kind of International Waters and there aren’t a lot of regulations. Then, I activated the parental controls on my laptop to save him from further mortification.

He stubbornly keeps his out-of-date clothing, clinging to it like some sort of security blanket (okay, I kind of get that. Just ask the matted teddy bear on my bed), rails against taxation and paying for water, yet pitches a fit about his “antiquated” cell phone, calling it “rubbish” because it’s not a “smart-phone”.

Honestly, it makes me smile. How can you not love a guy like that?

Not _that_ way, obviously. The man is married and devoted to his nebulous wife. I am assuming he will be until something definite happens to her. Either they ’ll be reunited, or he’ll be heartbroken.

But, I do love him. I don’t have a choice in the matter. I don’t think I do, anyway. This is a man who singlehandedly set my life on a very different course the minute he quite literally burst into it from a grave deep in the forest.

I thought I had a plan for my life. However, it turns out there was a Plan already charted for me. And it is inexplicably and permanently tied to him. We only have each other. This has been proven time and time again. We keep things from other people. We don’t keep things from each other. We _can_ _’_ _t_ keep things from each other. Our bizarre relationship doesn ’t _work_ if we do.

He came with me to fight the Sandman. I didn’t ask him. He just did it. He didn’t even warn me. Just took that nasty tea and drank it, leaving me no choice. Allowed himself to be stung by a scorpion (he was way more freaked out about that than he let on). For me.

And Parrish was able to help me find him just by touching my hand. True, it was bravado that prompted my words that day, professing the strength of my bond with him. But, it was as much a test for me as it was for Parrish. I wanted to see if we _did_ have a strong bond.

Deep down, I think I knew. But, the last remaining shred of skepticism in me needed proof.

I got proof. _Damn,_ did I get proof.

Idiot. Who drinks poison for the greater good?

Seriously. Who _does_ that?

_He_ does.

Because that’s who he is. He’s amazing, and he is in my heart for the next seven years. At least.

No matter what happens.


	7. O to Be a Dragon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> O to Be a Dragon  
> -Marianne Moore
> 
> If I, like Solomon,...  
> could have my wish(sh)  
> my wish  
> O to be a dragon,— (nnn)–  
> a symbol of the power of Heaven—  
> of silkworm size or immense;  
> at times invisible.  
> Felicitous phenomenon!

The spell broke. Crane screams and his body stills, slowly shrinking back to its normal size, scales and horns giving way to skin and hair; great, leathery wings shrinking back into shoulder blades, long talons retracting into fingers and toes.

Abbie waits, breathless and watching as the dust settles and she sees her partner crouching on his hands and knees on the forest floor, naked, sweating, and panting, his head drooping between his shoulders. She blinks, shaking herself out of her paralysis and into action, into Police Mode. Don’t feel, just _do._ Process emotions later. Someone needs your help.

_Go._

“A-Abbie…”

By the time he shakily grunts her name, she’s running back from her car with a blanket. She drapes it over his hunched shoulders, ignoring his nakedness. It’s not important right now. What’s important is getting him warm. Getting him home.

“Shh, I’m here, I’m here,” Abbie says softly, wrapping the blanket around him, urging him to sit back.

Crane coughs, and she almost expects to see a puff of smoke come out of his mouth. Instead, there is only vapor from his warm breath hitting the cool air, the same as hers.

“That was…”

“Shh,” she soothes, rubbing circles on his back, urging him to recover, not talk. “Tell me later. I’m just glad you’re back.” She scoots in front of him, pushes his disheveled hair from his face, and looks at him.

He gasps when he sees her. Then, he coughs again, harder, doubling over.

“I have a bottle of water in the car,” she says.

“I’m so sorry, Lieutenant,” he rasps. Her face is sooty. Her hair is half out of its ponytail. She has a long scratch on her upper arm — _I know she got that from me_ — and he suspects she is likely burned somewhere as well.

“Don’t worry about it. Can you stand? We need to get you home,” she says, tucking the blanket more securely around him. He clutches at it, holding it closed in front of him.

He nods, and stands, Abbie supporting his elbow. “Watch your step. I don’t have your boots, sorry,” she says absently. She doesn’t need him lacerating the soles of his feet along with everything else that’s happened.

In the car, she passes him the bottle of water. He guzzles it like a man stranded in the desert, then drops his head back against the headrest, eyes closed.

He’s silent for the entire drive to the cabin. Abbie doesn’t press him to speak.

She leads him inside, steers him to the shower, and tells him she’ll cook him something while he’s in there and that he should take as long as he needs.

He doesn’t argue. He moves like a man who hasn’t slept in days.

Apparently, twenty-four hours as a dragon will really wear a man out.

Abbie washes her face in the kitchen and re-secures her ponytail. Poking around the fridge and cupboards, she finds some leftover chicken, a jar of spaghetti sauce, and some spaghetti noodles. She sets about throwing together a quick and sloppy sort of chicken cacciatore. _He likes Italian food. This will be good._

As she cooks, she finds her ears are attuned to the bathroom, listening to the sounds of the shower. Listening for any sign that he may need help. She doesn’t know exactly what kind of help he might require, but she _does_ know that if she hears one scream, one cry, one _thump_ , she will bolt down the hall to his aid.

After a good 20 minutes, she hears the water turn off, so she fills his teapot from the tap — _yep, he used up all the hot water_ _—_ and puts it on the stove to heat.

Crane comes shuffling out five minutes later, walking with an uncharacteristically heavy gait, shoulders slumped with fatigue and, perhaps, shame. He sinks into a kitchen chair, dressed, but barefoot.

“I’m making tea for you,” she says. “It’ll be ready in a minute or two.”

“Miss Mills, I…” His voice is still hoarse.

“We’ll talk later,” she says. “You need food first. Unless you found a princess in a tower somewhere, I don’t think you’ve had anything to eat in at least a day.”

He looks at her, stricken.

“Too soon?”

He nods.

“Sorry. Defense mechanism. I make inappropriate jokes so I don’t lose my mind,” she says, her back to him as she prepares his tea.

Moments later, Abbie sets his tea in front of him, prepared the agonizingly painstaking way he likes it (as soon as he discovered he didn’t _have_ to use tea bags, he gave them up), but with a generous amount of honey added. He closes his hand over hers before she can remove it from the mug.

“Thank you,” Crane whispers. Abbie knows he’s not thanking her for the tea.

“Drink. It’ll help your throat.”

He drinks, and she turns to drain the noodles.

“There is honey in this,” he comments.

“Straight from the plastic bear’s head,” she answers, turning to see his lips quirk in a sad half-smile. “For your throat. I can’t even imagine what it must feel like,” she says.

“It feels like it has been incinerated,” he says, drinking more.

She brings their plates to the table, already loaded with food. She’s given him twice the amount she has. He eats all of it, and finishes what she leaves on her plate.

She doesn’t let him talk during dinner.

 

xXx

 

“One would think that being a dragon would be…” Crane pauses, searching for the word, “phenomenal. _Awesome,_ to use the current vernacular. ” He takes a drink of his water. The tea was helpful, but he has found he prefers cold beverages at the moment. “The immense power, the ability to fly, to create fire from one’s own belly…” He sighs and drops his head, guilt overtaking him again. He leans back against the couch, his eyes flitting to the oversized t-shirt draped over Abbie’s small form. She’d cleaned and dressed her wound, but her shirt was ruined. She found one of Corbin’s old ones in a closet and put it on. When she came back out, Crane could see right through the mask she’d made of her face, hiding the emotion she felt at wearing something of her late mentor’s.

But, now was not the time for that discussion.

“Dragons are highly over-romanticized,” he continues, staring at his half-empty water glass on the table in front of him. “It was absolutely, without question, the single most horrifying experience in my life.”

“That’s saying something, considering the types of experiences _you_ _’_ _ve_ had, ” Abbie comments. She’s staring at the fire.

They’re talking to one another, but it almost looks like they’re talking to themselves. They take turns speaking, but do not look at one another. He can’t; she won’t.

“Perhaps… perhaps if I had been in control of my own actions while in that form…” he trails off, pondering. “Yes. _That_ is the issue at hand. Wielding such power and not being the one to control it. I was a huge, ghastly puppet. A weapon. A weapon Moloch created for the sole purpose of killing you …” He stops, unable to continue the thought. He drinks his water again.

“I know you didn’t mean to hurt me,” Abbie says, willing her voice to be even. She quickly swipes at her tear-wet face, hoping he doesn’t see how much his ordeal has affected her. “I don’t hold you responsible. It’s just a scratch, anyway.”

“I could have _killed_ you, Abbie! What if … what if my… _talon_ had hit someplace more critical than your arm? I could have sliced your neck! Or taken off your head! ” he yells. He immediately regrets it, quickly grabbing his water again and draining the glass.

“‘What if?’ Crane, you can ‘what if’ yourself until you’re crazy, don’t you know that? And you _didn_ _’_ _t_ kill me! You … you stopped yourself, remember?” she yells back, looking at him now. She wipes her eyes again, no longer caring if he sees, snatches the empty water glass from his hands, and stomps to the kitchen to refill it for him.

“Lieutenant…”

She comes back, hands him his glass, and plops down on the couch, sitting right beside him instead of at the other end. “Stop. You apologized. I accepted. You’re _you_ again. We beat him. _You_ beat him. He couldn ’t completely control you.”

“The moment I touched you, um, _wounded_ you …” he pauses, his voice faltering at the memory of injuring his partner. He swallows hard, gathering himself, and continues. “The moment I heard your voice, it was as if I woke up from one horrible nightmare and found myself in another. I don’t know if I knew exactly who you were, but I somehow _knew_ you were special. I knew I could not harm you, could not kill you. Or, I _would_ not. ” His voice is quiet, reflective. “I found the will to _fight_ the impulse he was ruthlessly impressing upon me to crush you, burn you, devour you …” He drops his head into his hands. “I just kept thinking, ‘No. No, I can’t. I _won_ _’_ _t._ ’”

“You didn’t,” Abbie says, her voice soft, but insistent. Bolstering him, determined to help him move past this horrible experience. She knows he will always remember it, but she can at least help him put it behind him.

“Fortunately,” Crane sighs, his stormy eyes meeting her compassionate ones.

Abbie reaches over and takes Crane’s hand. “Moloch underestimated us, Crane. He thought he was stronger than our connection to each other.”

“When I finally saw you, you were like a beacon. A bright light in the darkness. I could not destroy that light.”

Abbie smiles a little. _Under different circumstances, that might be considered romantic._ “ I’m glad you didn’t,” she finally says.

“As am I,” he answers, squeezing her hand. “Thank you again, Abbie.”

“You’re welcome, but you can stop thanking me now.” She smiles fully at him, squeezing his hand back. She looks at him. His hair is down, the soft dark waves falling around his face. He looks immeasurably tired. “You’re exhausted. You should get some sleep.”

“Yes,” he agrees. He releases her hand and stands. Two steps away, he turns. “Will you be staying?”

She’s slept on his couch on more than one occasion, just as he’s slept in her guest bedroom a few times. It usually happens because Abbie is too tired to drive.

But, this is the first time he’s actually asked her. She angles her head at him. “Do you want me to stay?”

“Please,” he says, looking lost. “I… just… yes, please stay.”

She understands. He doesn’t want to be alone after his ordeal, but cannot find the words. “If I can use your shower, I’ll definitely stay.”

“Of course,” he answers.

When Abbie comes out of the shower some time later, she’s surprised to see Crane still awake. He’s sitting up in bed, bare-chested, a book open on his lap.

“You should be sleeping,” she says, twisting her damp hair into a braid, knowing she’ll likely regret this decision in the morning.

“Every time I close my eyes, I see through dragon eyes once again,” he says.

“I’m sorry.”

“Miss Mills, this is going to sound terribly forward, and I apologize in advance for making such a bold request, but… would you lie here with me? I think I could manage to sleep if you are near.”

Abbie stares a moment, pondering his request. The bed does seem preferable to the couch. She’s been awake for as long as Crane has, and being in a nice, big bed next to a warm body sounds _very_ inviting.  “Sure,” she finally says.

She’s wearing Corbin’s giant t-shirt, which hangs to her knees (the man was even taller than Crane) and her underwear. Her bra is tucked into her jeans on a chair in the corner beside her shoes and socks.

Crane sets the book aside and pulls the covers back, thus revealing he is clad in a pair of soft cotton sleep shorts. Shorts Abbie recognizes because she bought them for him soon after he arrived.

She climbs in and he brings the blanket up over her, encapsulating her small body in the thick covers. A moment later, she is encapsulated by Crane as well. She’s only a little surprised.

“You _are_ my beacon in the dark, Miss Mills, ” he says softly. “I do not know what I would do without you.” His arm is around her waist and she can feel his breath on her neck.

His words warm her heart, and she searches for some of her own. “If I’m your beacon, then you’re my anchor, Crane,” she says, her voice quiet in the safety of the dark. “You’re the only thing stopping me from just… running away and never coming back. When things get overwhelming, you keep me grounded. Thank you for that.”

His arm tightens around her. She feels him press his lips to the crown of her head. “You are very welcome.”

Neither speak for several minutes, and Abbie wonders if he’s fallen asleep. Then, he speaks again. “Interesting metaphor, considering I was recently _flying_ around trying to kill you, ” he observes, chuckling.

She snorts a laugh, which makes him laugh harder. “Shut up,” she finally says. “Go to sleep.”

“I think I shall be able to sleep now,” he sighs. “Good night, Miss Mills.”

“Good night, Crane,” she says, settling against him. It doesn’t feel as strange and foreign as she expected it to. In fact, it feels quite nice.

“Thank, you, Abbie,” he softly adds after a minute. “For everything.”

“You’re welcome, Ichabod.” She sighs lightly, her eyes heavy. “I’m glad you’re back with me.” _It_ _’_ _s an inadequate sentiment, but it_ _’_ _s the best I can do right now. I_ _’_ _m just too tired._ She feels comfortably warm and secure and finally allows her body to fully relax.

He pulls her closer, just slightly. “As am I,” he says. “As am I,” he repeats, his voice a whisper as he sinks into an exhausted sleep, blissfully devoid of any dreams.


	8. The Bustle in a House

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Bustle in a House  
> -Emily Dickinson
> 
> The Bustle in a House  
> The Morning after Death  
> Is solemnest of industries  
> Enacted upon Earth.  
> The Sweeping up the Heart  
> And putting Love away  
> We shall not want to use again  
> Until Eternity.

She arrives at the cabin like clockwork. Like everything is normal. Like the world hasn’t shifted.

The sun rises and sets. People travel to and from their jobs. Abbie comes to the cabin with coffee at 8:15. The world keeps moving forward, as if nothing has happened.

Unaware that his heart is broken.

She’s gone. His beloved wife, who survived purgatory for over 200 years, is gone. Dead.

It came about so quickly, Crane hadn’t even had time to properly prepare. To bid farewell.

It happens like that sometimes, death.

Yet, no one is truly ready when it comes. Whether it descends after a long, slow illness or crashes in unexpectedly, no one is _truly_ prepared.

The person who has died is sometimes ready. His or her loved ones never are.

Dying is easy. Living is difficult.

“Ichabod,” her soft voice rouses him, as it always does, the pungent smell of coffee mixing with the soft vanilla scent of Abbie.

He’s awake. He always is when she arrives. He just hasn’t risen. He cannot find the will to do so until she touches his shoulder and speaks his name.

She only uses his first name in this situation. Otherwise, it’s always “Crane.”

Truly, he’s grateful for her attempts at maintaining normalcy. She gave him time to mourn, time to process his grief, but she does not allow him to wallow anymore.

The first morning was the most difficult. She had arrived at the cabin, not intending to drag him to the station, but to check on him before she went.

He wouldn’t speak to her. Wouldn’t look at her.

She had seemed to understand, but lingered, tidying up, picking up his carelessly-strewn clothes and the telltale glass sitting beside a mostly-empty bottle of rum.

He could hear her bustling about, being so infuriatingly _helpful_ and _understanding_ , giving him sympathy with a genuine sincerity that made him want to scream and throw his boot through the window.

_How_ dare _she be so perfect? Doesn_ _’_ _t she know my wife is dead and I am dying inside? She has_ no right _to come in here and_ help  _me cope with my problems._

She had brought him some toast and a cup of tea, setting them gently on the nightstand. He rolled away, unable to face her.

“If you need a bite to eat,” she said, her voice gentle, understanding, but not coddling. It only made him angrier.

“Please leave,” he had barked at the wall, cringing at the sound of his voice. He sounded like a petulant child and hated himself for it.

“Call me if you need anything,” she had calmly replied. If she was stung by his tone, her voice did not betray it.

“Just go!” he had replied, even more sharply, his voice wavering with emotion. The words had come out of their own accord. He wished he could swallow them back in.

He listened for her softly retreating footsteps, but heard nothing. He turned, an apology on his lips, but she wasn’t there.

The soft _click_ of the door was all that greeted him. A moment later, he heard her car ’s engine start.

He rolled over, unable to even summon the energy to lift his phone. As much as he wished to call and beg her forgiveness, he could not summon the will.

Nevertheless, she had returned that evening with food in a red and white paper bucket.

Though he had behaved deplorably, she had returned and brought him dinner.

“Miss Mills…” he had started to apologize, having gone over the words again and again in between his regretful thoughts about Katrina.

“You don’t need to apologize,” she softly interrupted. “Crane, if there’s one thing I understand, it’s loss, okay?”

He nodded once, and gingerly reached for a piece of what was presumably chicken. It was drumstick-shaped and coated with a strange, crisp coating. It smelled wonderful.

“Southern fried chicken. You’ll like it. It’s impossible not to,” she prompted, taking a bite out of her own drumstick. “Not as good as homemade, but the Colonel will do in a pinch,” she declared.

He lifted the chicken to his lips as she had done and took a bite, not bothering to wonder who this “Colonel” is and what he has to do with chicken. The appreciative groan that escaped his throat surprised him more than it did her. She hid a small smile behind her glass as she lifted it to her lips.

“Times like these call for comfort food. Try some mashed potatoes, and don’t skimp on that gravy,” she said, reaching across to spoon some potatoes onto his plate. “Biscuit. You need a biscuit.”

Katrina died on a Thursday. By the following Tuesday, Crane decided he could leave the cabin and attempt life.

Now, it is Friday; a whole week has passed. Abbie is waiting for him. He can hear her in his kitchen. It sounds like she’s cooking.

She sometimes makes him a little breakfast while he gets ready. She never used to, but she had confessed she worried he wouldn’t eat otherwise. “You’re already too skinny,” she had declared.

He feels better today. He is neither angry with the sun for rising nor the birds for singing. He is not angry that the world continues to revolve without Katrina in it.

_It continued to revolve after I died_ , he muses.

_But, you came back,_ another, crueler voice taunts.

_It continued to revolve after Miss Mills_ _’_ _beloved Sheriff Corbin died. And General Washington. And millions of others._

_It shall continue after I die yet again, presumably permanently this time. And Miss Mills. Abbie._

_It is the way of things._

He adjusts his cuffs, secures his hair, and steps out of the bedroom.

“Ah, he looks almost human today,” Abbie greets him. She can see he is feeling better, and it makes her smile.

“Yes, very droll,” he allows. “I am feeling markedly better. My heart is not yet fully healed, but I am no longer wallowing in my misery.”

“I can see that. I made you some eggs.”

He steps over to her and places his hands on her shoulders. “Thank you,” he says, looking into her deep brown eyes.

“They’re just scrambled eggs,” she says immediately, then, “Oh.” _He didn_ _’_ _t mean the eggs._ “ You’re welcome. No one needs to go through that alone,” she says softly.

He leans down and kisses her forehead. “I shall always remember how you cared for me during this time. You are a treasured friend, Abbie, and I am most fortunate to have you in my life.”

“I’m fortunate to have you, too, Crane. That’s why I had to help get you through this. I can’t save the world all by myself, you know,” she says, smiling up at him.

He pulls her into his arms, hugging her. “I know. But, you saved me, and I am grateful for your tender care.”

She wraps her arms around his waist, hugging him back. “Anytime, Crane. I know you’d do the same for me.”

“A thousand times over,” he answers.

_I think I shall be fine. I know I will._

_Perhaps not now, but soon._


	9. I Saw Eternity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I Saw Eternity  
> -Louise Bogan
> 
> O beautiful Forever!  
> O grandiose Everlasting!  
> Now, now, now,  
> I break you into pieces,  
> I feed you to the ground.  
> O brilliant, O languishing  
> Cycle of weeping light!  
> The mice and birds will eat you  
> And you will spoil their stomachs  
> As you have spoiled my mind.  
> Here, mice, rats,  
> Porcupines and toads,  
> Moles, shrews, squirrels,  
> Weasels, turtles, lizards, —  
> Here’s bright Everlasting!  
> Here’s a crumb of Forever!  
> Here’s a crumb of Forever!

“No…” Crane breathes the word, speaking without thought. Abbie’s words have rocked him to his core, and as much as he has dreamed of hearing them, has _craved_ hearing them, he cannot allow it. As much as he feels the same way, he cannot allow it.

“Excuse me?” Abbie asks, staggering back a step. He automatically reaches for her arm, and she steps to the side, suddenly realizing how close she just came to falling into the lake behind her.

She’d come to the cabin to cook him dinner and finally confess her feelings for him. She came to realize those feelings two weeks after Katrina died, which was almost a year ago. And though she was fairly certain he felt the same way, it didn’t make the thought of telling him any easier. She contemplated turning the car around twice during the drive over. The only thing that kept her on course was the memory of how Crane had been flirting with her for the past five months. Even if he probably didn’t realize he was flirting.

But, he definitely was.

She had found him outside the cabin, watching the sun set over the lake, and they haven’t yet made it inside.

“I tell you I love you, and _that_ _’_ _s_ what you say? ‘No’?” she huffs, turning away from him, humiliated.

“You can’t… it’s just…” he stammers, trying to explain.

“You can _not_ tell me how to feel, Crane. ”

“I’m sorry, Miss Mills, but…” He reaches out and touches her shoulder, and she jerks away. He drops his hand.

“Save it. I screwed up my courage and poured my damn heart out to you, thinking you felt the same, and… I guess I was wrong, and now I know where I stand. I suppose I should thank you for that.” Her voice breaks as she struggles to control her emotions.

“Abbie…”

She turns and faces him, the hurt in her eyes like a dagger in his heart. “No, no, it’s fine. We can just… pretend this conversation never happened, and—” Her voice returns to its steady tone and she raises her hands in surrender.

“Damn it, Abbie, will you allow me to explain?” Crane says loudly, interrupting her now.

Abbie starts and looks up at him with raised eyebrows, hands on her hips. She is momentarily stunned by Crane’s words and manner. Regaining her composure, pressing her lips together and angling her head at him, she answers, “Please, enlighten me.”

They stand facing each other for a moment. Crane looks defeated. Almost guilty. He turns his face away from Abbie, choosing to gaze out over the lake because it is easier than seeing the hurt in her eyes. “Loving me is a bad idea. It is… dangerous,” he finally says, his voice soft and sad.

She stares, crossing her arms in front of her. “What the hell does that mean?”

He takes a deep, shuddering breath, gathering his thoughts as he stares across the water. Finally, he looks down at her. When he speaks, his voice is unusually somber. “Everyone I’ve loved… who has loved me… has gotten hurt. Or others have gotten hurt as a result. When Katrina died, I… I promised myself I would not allow it to happen again,” he says, his voice still velvet-soft. “No matter what I feel for…” his voice dies out, stopping himself before admitting his feelings aloud.

But, it’s too late.

“No matter what you feel for…” Abbie prompts. She raises an eyebrow at him.

“It doesn’t matter,” Crane says, looking guiltily away. “No good can come of it. My marriage to Katrina, it… it spawned the Horseman of War. Our love pushed Abraham to become the Horseman of Death. _Two_ people aligned themselves with Moloch because of our love! ” His voice grows louder, more agitated, as he speaks, finally breaking at the end.

Abbie presses her lips together, his anguish making her heart ache a little. She pauses, debating whether she should ask the question in her brain, a question she’s left un-asked for years. “Not to speak ill of the dead, but did y’ever think that might have been more _Katrina_ _’_ _s_ fault than yours? ” She waits for him to automatically defend his late wife, and is surprised when he says nothing for a moment and turns away, once again looking out over the lake.

“Of course, that thought had crossed my mind, on several occasions,” he quietly allows. She knows this is something he would only admit to her. “But, I cannot deny I played my part. And it’s not only Katrina. I loved my parents. I was every inch my father’s son until I chose to align myself with the Colonies and forsake the crown. He disowned me, Abbie. Because of _my_ choices. I … I miss him. And I miss my mother terribly.”

Abbie sighs, her anger melting into a perplexing combination of sadness and irritation. She steps over to him, touching his elbow. “Ichabod. You are my best friend. You know me better than anyone, and I know you better than anyone, right?” He nods. “What I’m about to tell you comes from a place of love and friendship, okay?” He looks down at her, puzzling, wondering what she has to say to him. She no longer sounds angry. Her voice is soft, measured. “Your reasons for closing off your heart are some of the most arrogant, bullshit reasons I’ve heard in a long time. The world doesn’t revolve around you, Crane.”

Stunned, he opens his mouth and closes it again. Truly, she has rendered him speechless.

“Yes, you chose to defect to the other side in the war. You did what you thought was right. Actually, it happens in every war. It was your _father_ _’_ _s_ choice to disown you, and I ’m sure he regretted it once he calmed down. He probably _really_ regretted it after you died, ” she says, smiling weakly. “And… I miss my parents, too,” she adds, almost as an afterthought, dropping her hand. She looks up at him, catching his gaze and holding it. “Damn it, Crane, if we all stopped _allowing_ ourselves to fall in love based on some bad experiences, the human race would be extinct! ”

He stares down at her, his sad blue eyes gazing into her determined brown ones. “As always, you… you make a compelling argument, Lieutenant,” he says, but he is still frowning.

“And,” she starts again, knowing he needs more, “okay, _yes,_ you did have a part to play in Abraham ’s little problem — I mean, did you _really_ have to tell him Katrina confessed her love to you so soon after she broke off their engagement? Come _on_ , man.” Abbie shakes her head and sighs. “You can’t shoulder all the blame. I told you that years ago.”

“I recall.”

“I know you do.” She places her hand on his shoulder. “Crane, you cannot take any blame for what happened to Jeremy. You were freaking _dead._ You didn ’t know he existed. His issues with you were his own.”

Crane sighs and looks down at her, his eyes scanning her face, a face he has found so beautiful for so long. “I also recall an occasion where I promised I would always heed your words,” he says. He smiles a little, remembering his moment of surprise when she ambushed him with that unexpected hug, her small arms clutching him fiercely. It seems so long ago.

“You did,” she nods, stepping closer him. She slowly lifts her hands toward his chest, hesitates, and moves them to his arms instead, idly rubbing her thumbs back and forth across his biceps.

His hands find her waist on their own, settling as though they belong there. He gazes down at her, his eyes shining softly in the gradually fading light. When he speaks, his voice is quiet and hoarse with emotion. “I could not bear it if you were hurt because of me. If something happened to you… I…” He closes his eyes, unable to continue.

Abbie blinks rapidly a few times and presses her lips together, willing away the tears that have been threatening since he said the word “No”. She takes a deep breath. “You can’t shoulder the responsibility for everything that happens to those around you, Ichabod,” she says softly, reaching up to touch his cheek.

He leans his face into her hand, then turns his head and kisses her palm. Her eyes close at the sensation of his lips on her skin. “I know,” he says softly, pulling her closer. Her hand lands on his shoulder and her heart feels like it’s attempting to beat its way out of her chest.

Crane’s hands tighten on her waist, and she feels herself lifted off of her feet.

“Crane!” Abbie exclaims. Then, her feet land on a low, flat boulder nearby, bringing her face closer to his. “Oh…”

His lips close over hers quite suddenly, one hand around her waist, the other holding the back of her head, tenderly but firmly, supporting her as he leans into her.

She squeaks in surprise, but quickly relaxes into his kiss, her arms winding around his neck, sliding into his hair. She feels the tip of his tongue against her lips, prodding gently, almost shyly, and she parts her lips immediately.

He groans and thrusts his tongue into her willing mouth, relishing her flavor, her responsiveness, her ardor.

“Abbie…” he gasps, releasing her lips, but she presses her lips back to his before he can say anything more. Her boldness catches him off balance, and if he had the ability to think clearly, he would know he should not be surprised. He should not expect anything different. Crane knows his Lieutenant nearly as well as he knows himself.

Clear thought is not a priority at the moment. The woman in his arms, the woman he loves, is his priority. He knows, in this moment, he will do anything in his power to protect her and show her how much she means to him. For the rest of their lives.

But, there is one matter to which he must attend immediately.

“Abbie,” he says again, more insistently, pulling gently away and taking her hands in his. Her already-plump lips are swollen from their kisses, and his are tingling and likely swollen as well. “Abbie, my treasure, I _do_ love you. So very much. ” He kisses her lips once more. “I needed to tell you.”

She smiles. “I know. I love you, too.”

“I promise you, Miss Grace Abigail Mills, that my heart is forever yours. For however long our ‘forever’ may be.” He quirks a small smile, and she chuckles.

They’ve never had any illusions about the potentially fatal nature of their entwined destinies.

“Well, even if ‘forever’ is just a crumb, I’ll take it, if it’s with you, Ichabod,” she says, kissing him again.

He exhales slowly, a smile on his face as he drops his forehead against hers. They hold one another, staring into each other’s eyes, as the final sliver of the sun slips below the surface of the lake.


	10. Night Practice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem for this one is in the body of the chapter because of its unique formatting.

**Night Practice  
-May Swenson**

 

**I  
will  
remember  
with my breath  
to make a mountain  
with my sucked-in breath  
a valley, with my pushed-out  
breath a mountain. I will make  
a valley wider than the whisper, I  
will make a higher mountain than the cry;  
with my will breathe a valley. I will push out  
a mountain, suck in a valley, deeper than the shout  
YOU MUST DIE, harder, heavier, sharper a mountain than  
the truth YOU MUST DIE. I will remember. My breath will  
make a mountain. My will will remember to will. I, suck-  
ing, pushing. I will breathe a valley, I will breathe a mountain.**

 

xXx

 

“But—”

“I think you can make an exception.” The voice is familiar. General Washington?

“The rule states only family is allowed to stay overnight. And I’m sorry, but it’s pretty clear she’s not related to him, by blood, anyway, and I don’t see any wedding rings.” I do not know this second voice. Female.

I attempt to open my eyes. They do not obey.

I try to move my body. It does not obey.

I can hear. The voices are not always distinct.

I can breathe. Each breath is a labor.

What has happened?

“He has no family. She’s the closest thing to family he has.” He pauses. It’s not Washington. “And I seriously doubt you’ll be able to persuade her to leave his side.” Captain Irving. Yes, that’s who it is.

Twenty-first century. Of course.

The fog closes in on me, and I fight the cloying blackness holding me immobile, holding my eyes closed. I want to see, to sit up.

I want to remember who “she” is. If she is as close as family, she must be very important to me. Her name, her face are just out of reach.

The female voice sighs, exasperated. “Fine. She can stay. I’ll let the other nurses know. However, _you_ have five minutes. Then, visiting hours are over. ”

Visiting hours? Where am I?

What I can feel… feels painful. My inability to move is likely a blessing.

I must remember to breathe. In. Out. In. Out.

The only source of comfort is in my right hand. I feel a soft warmth there. Occasionally, the warmth tightens.

“Mills, call if you need anything. Jenny sent you some supper; make sure you eat something,” the Captain’s voice, nearer now, speaks to someone. Mills? And the other name… Jenny… it’s familiar.

Lieutenant Mills.

Miss Mills.

Abbie.

Miss Jenny.

Abbie.

“Mmm-hmm.” A soft murmur beside me, near my head. Familiar.

“Don’t stay awake all night,” Irving’s voice is farther away now.

“Mmm-hmm.”

Silence. Listening has drained what little energy I have.

In. Out. In. Out.

I drift.

 

xXx

 

My hand is cold. It startles me back to this peculiar form of consciousness. The soft, comforting warmth in my hand is missing.

I want it back. Very much.

Breathe.

In. Out. In. Out.

Perhaps it will return. If I could will my hand to move, to search out that source of comfort, I would.

There’s a sound. A distant, watery _whoosh_ that is vaguely familiar, though I cannot quite place it.

Then, a door and soft footfalls.

The soft warmth returns. It is a hand. I can feel slender fingers wrapping around my hand, clasping it tightly.

“I’m back. Sorry I was gone. I hope you didn’t miss me.”

I know this voice. Abbie. My dear, dear partner. It is her small hand in mine, her small hand that is my only lifeline.

Captain Irving bargained with… a nurse… to allow Miss Mills to remain at my side.

I must be in hospital.

Why?

I try to move. I try to open my eyes once again. I try to speak, though I know it will be futile. I try with everything I have.

Something begins to emit a beeping sound, and I hear Miss Mills gasp in alarm.

I stop trying, and, once again, return my focus to breathing.

In. Out. In. Out.

“Crane, I’m gonna call the nurse, hang on.” Miss Mills’ voice is urgent. Worried. “Stay with me, Ichabod. Please…”

I will stay with you, Miss Mills. I will.

In. Out. In. Out.

“Excuse me, miss, I need to check his line.”

She slowly releases my hand.

No. Don’t…

There is too much commotion. I drift again.

 

xXx

 

“Crane, I don’t know if you can hear me, but I need you to wake up. Please.”

A soft, female voice rouses me from my oblivion. Katrina? Yes, it must be Katrina.

No. Katrina would call me by my Christian name.

Then, I remember. Katrina died some time ago.

This is Miss Mills. She’s still here. Yes. I feel her hand in mine.

How long has it been?

“I can’t do this without you, Crane. The world needs _two_ Witnesses, not one. Wake up. Wake up and I ’ll let you have all the doughnut holes you want. I’ll teach you to drive. I won’t complain when you make fun of the History Channel. I’ll… I’ll let you teach me ancient Greek… Aramaic… _anything_ …” her voice sounds strange. It’s hoarse and thick with emotion. I feel a shift beside me.

I can smell her now, a sweet, familiar scent. It’s so close.

My breathing is easier, and I take a moment to inhale her essence. I feel a sense of peace wash over me, and I let myself drift a moment, surrounded by it. By _her_.

In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.

“I need you, Ichabod. Wake up. _Please_ ,” she whispers. I can almost see her face on the pillow beside mine, her large brown eyes shining with tears. I want to gently wipe her eyes. Hold her and tell her I’m alive, that our task of climbing this mountain is not yet finished, that she will not have to scale it alone.

Kiss away each tear.

Miss Mills.

Abbie.

I must try.

I concentrate, and twitch a toe. Then, again.

In. Out. In. Out.

My hand, inside hers. I flex my fingers as hard as I can, and they move slightly.

She gasps.

It was enough.

“Do that again…”

In. Out. In. Out.

I obey her command.

“Crane…”

Her hand squeezes mine back, and I feel a weight on my shoulder. Her head. I can feel her hair against my neck.

“Ab… bie.”

I don’t know how I managed that.

In. Out. In. Out.

The weight lifts from my shoulder.

“Again.” I feel her warm breath on my skin.

“Abbie.”

A soft sob. Her head on my shoulder again, her face pressing into my neck. I can feel the wetness of her tears against my skin.

So warm. So alive.

I must open my eyes.

I _must_.

In. Out. In. Out.

“Abbie.”

She lifts her head.

The first thing I see is her face hovering above mine. It is a wonderful, beautiful sight. A much better sight than the dark, dank cave to which I previously awoke.

However, I wasn’t expecting her to kiss me. Her soft lips press against mine, insistent, but not too hard. Her relief pouring into me. Then, suddenly— 

“Oh… um… sorry…” she stammers, pulling her lips from mine.

I am too busy reeling from her kiss, so I just squeeze her hand and manage a small smile, hoping it conveys a small portion of the relief and… joy… I am feeling.

“You’re awake,” she states.

I nod.

“I should call the nurse…” she moves, groping for the button with her free hand.

“No,” I croak. How long have I been out?

“They’ll want to know…”

“Wait,” I say. I want to savor these moments alone with her before a barrage of medical professionals invades my room to poke and prod. Before they remove Miss Mills from my side.

“Do you remember anything?” She’s now clutching my hand between both of hers.

“No. I heard some things… after I was here… but, why am I here?”

“A demon hurled you through a wall,” she says. “You didn’t wake up.” Her voice wavers, and a tear falls from her eye. I try to lift my hand to wipe it away, but I cannot summon the energy. She reaches up and quickly dabs it with her sleeve.

“I’m so glad you’re awake,” she whispers.

“Yes, me, too,” I say. I see several bags from McDonald’s and many cups from Starbuck’s littering the room. “Have you not left?” She shakes her head. “How long?”

“Nearly three days,” she says.

“Miss Mills…”

“Save it. You would do the same.”

I press her hand and close my eyes.

We sit quietly for a few moments. I can feel her nearby, my every sense attuned to her. The warmth radiating from her. Her small fingertips caress my face, skimming my beard. I manage a smile.

“If I had known I would have to nearly die to earn a kiss from you, I would have done so months ago.”

“What?”

In. Out. In. Out.

I open my eyes and look at her. “Abbie.” I stroke the back of her hand with my thumb.

“Ichabod,” she shakily sighs and closes her eyes. “Waiting for you to wake up, not even sure that you would, it… I…” She stops, collecting herself. I feel her squeeze my hand and whisper, “I was afraid. So afraid. It was almost as if I couldn't breathe.”

I squeeze her hand back as best I can. I wish I could hold her in my arms, but holding her hand will have to suffice for now. “Breathing… is the only thing I _could_ do whilst … unconscious, and even that felt… laborious. Still does. But… I knew I must persevere. I had to return to you. I needed…”

“Shh…” she hushes me, seeing how even the simple act of speaking is difficult. Tiring. “Don’t talk too much right now. Crane, I…” she starts and stops, closing her eyes, overwhelmed.

Perhaps it was unfair of me to show my hand so soon after waking from being incapacitated for three days.

But, life is precious and fleeting. I have had two lives. The first was taken from me and I was given a second chance. It is more than any man has been given. More than any man deserves. I will not squander this second chance. Each breath is a gift, and I will share these gifts with her.

With Miss Mills.

_Abbie_ .

“If you would like to alert the nurse, please do so,” I sigh, closing my eyes again. “I likely need medical attention.”

“Okay,” she whispers. I hear the soft click of the button as she presses it.

She rests her cheek against the top of my head for a moment, then brushes my hair from my forehead and kisses it just before the nurse arrives. I open my eyes and see there are two of them.

“He’s awake! Betsy…”

“I’ll alert the doctor, yes.”

I close my eyes again, clinging to Miss Mills’ hand for as long as they allow it.

In. Out. In. Out.

The breathing is easier now. Her mere presence makes it easier.

I will live. I _must_ live.

For her, I must live.


	11. The Fish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Fish  
> -Elizabeth Bishop
> 
> I caught a tremendous fish  
> and held him beside the boat  
> half out of water, with my hook  
> fast in a corner of his mouth.  
> He didn't fight.  
> He hadn’t fought at all.  
> He hung a grunting weight,  
> battered and venerable  
> and homely. Here and there  
> his brown skin hung in strips  
> like ancient wallpaper,  
> and its pattern of darker brown  
> was like wallpaper:  
> shapes like full-blown roses  
> stained and lost through age.  
> He was speckled with barnacles,  
> fine rosettes of lime,  
> and infested  
> with tiny white sea-lice,  
> and underneath two or three  
> rags of green weed hung down.  
> While his gills were breathing in  
> the terrible oxygen  
> —the frightening gills,  
> fresh and crisp with blood,  
> that can cut so badly—  
> I thought of the coarse white flesh  
> packed in like feathers,  
> the big bones and the little bones,  
> the dramatic reds and blacks  
> of his shiny entrails,  
> and the pink swim-bladder  
> like a big peony.  
> I looked into his eyes  
> which were far larger than mine  
> but shallower, and yellowed,  
> the irises backed and packed  
> with tarnished tinfoil  
> seen through the lenses  
> of old scratched isinglass.  
> They shifted a little, but not  
> to return my stare.  
> —It was more like the tipping  
> of an object toward the light.  
> I admired his sullen face,  
> the mechanism of his jaw,  
> and then I saw  
> that from his lower lip  
> —if you could call it a lip—  
> grim, wet, and weaponlike,  
> hung five old pieces of fish-line,  
> or four and a wire leader  
> with the swivel still attached,  
> with all their five big hooks  
> grown firmly in his mouth.  
> A green line, frayed at the end  
> where he broke it, two heavier lines,  
> and a fine black thread  
> still crimped from the strain and snap  
> when it broke and he got away.  
> Like medals with their ribbons  
> frayed and wavering,  
> a five-haired beard of wisdom  
> trailing from his aching jaw.  
> I stared and stared  
> and victory filled up  
> the little rented boat,  
> from the pool of bilge  
> where oil had spread a rainbow  
> around the rusted engine  
> to the bailer rusted orange,  
> the sun-cracked thwarts,  
> the oarlocks on their strings,  
> the gunnels—until everything  
> was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow!  
> And I let the fish go.

The months following War’s manifestation were harrowing. Crane found help in the unlikely form of Luke Morales. Once he calmed down and gathered his wits, he remembered Miss Mills’ smartphone was still on his person. Working diligently, he wormed a hand free enough to withdraw the device.

He immediately attempted to ring Jenny, only to receive no answer. He knew Captain Irving was out of commission. The only other trustworthy (and recognizable) name in her contacts list was Detective Morales. Luckily, Morales’ eyes were opened enough after his recent bout with demonic possession that he was amenable to listening when Crane informed him he’d been buried alive and would the good detective please track the GPS signal of Lieutenant Mills’ phone. He even bypassed asking why Crane had Abbie’s phone and where Abbie was until Crane was safely excavated.

Thankfully, Abbie tumbled back into the world of the living just as Crane was beginning to stammer a mostly-false explanation.

“Crane!” she had gasped, rising to her feet only to run the ten yards to where he was sitting on the ground, feet still dangling into the hole over his now-opened grave.

“Abbie!” he croaked, his voice weak with disbelief. Abbie flung herself to the ground and threw her arms around him as he simultaneously turned and enfolded her into a tight embrace, paying no heed to Luke and the handful of other officers gathered around.

Apologies were whispered, tears were shed. Questions were asked but not yet answered.

Abbie had managed a way out of her purgatorial prison with the help of her resourceful, yet comatose, sister. Following her escape, Abbie visited Jenny at the hospital twice a week to check her progress, talking to her, telling her she was brave and stupid and she loves her and she needs to get her own ass out of there and wake the hell up.

Demons still came. Jeremy/Henry tormented them, especially Crane. Headless still appeared periodically, and Abbie was certain it was only to flaunt his victory over Crane.

To let him know to whom Katrina now belonged.

Jeremy had confirmed this, quite gleefully, one terrifying night in the forest. “She’s lost to you forever, _Father_ ,” he had spat, no longer the awkward, fussy, quirky older gentleman. His bearing and demeanor were confident. Self-assured. Cocky. “She was always Abraham’s prize, not yours. You _stole_ her, like she stole my childhood,” he hissed. “It was _my_ job to deliver her, to see to it _you_ would deliver both the Second Witness to the Master and… _Mother_ to Abraham. To _Death._ ”

Crane had been speechless, his emotions battling with his logic and his purpose. Abbie bided her time, observing the scene carefully.

Jeremy stepped closer. “She’s gone. Your precious _wife_ is now the consort of Death.”

“No,” Crane finally whispered.

Jeremy smiled a mirthless, cruel smile. “Oh, how sad. You’re a widower. Everyone you care about is now _truly_ dead.” He paused a beat, sneering. “Would you like to join them?”

“Over my dead body,” Abbie’s voice sounded from the darkness just behind and to the left of Crane, low and clear. “Or better yet, yours.”

A shot rang out, a hole opened in Jeremy’s forehead, and he collapsed. Then, his body sank back into the earth, disappearing.

“Lieutenant…?”

“Silver bullet filled with holy water,” Abbie explained as Crane goggled at her. “I don’t think I’ve permanently put him down, but he’ll be quiet for a while.”

Crane said nothing, conflicted.

“He should know better than to hang around _here,_ of all places,” Abbie continued, waving at the four white trees.

“You put him…”

“Back into his hole, yes. Let’s go,” Abbie declared, taking Crane’s hand and gently leading him away. She knew her demeanor was brusque, even callous, but someone had to keep his or her head together tonight, and it wasn’t going to be Crane.

_The man lost his secret-keeping wife and his evil son in one evening. He’s holding it together better than most._

He was silent the entire drive back to the cabin.

“I’m staying here tonight,” Abbie had declared when she stopped the car. Crane merely nodded.

Inside, he collapsed onto the bed, fully dressed, boots still on. Abbie gathered some spare bedding and dropped it on the couch before checking on him.

“Crane, I’m sorry. I really am,” she said quietly, moving to the end of the bed to pull the boots off of his unresisting feet. “I can’t begin to imagine how you must be feeling, but I’m here if you need me. If and when you’re ever ready to talk about it. If you need to talk about it.” She placed his boots aside, then moved to the side of the bed. She touched his shoulder and sat him up, working the coat off of his shoulders. He shifted enough to allow her to remove the garment before flopping back onto the pillow, his face etched with weariness and defeat. “If you need _anything._ ”

Abbie stood a moment, looking down with him with a worried expression. Crane opened his eyes and looked back at her, his eyes two blue pools of pain. She reached down and squeezed his hand. He closed his eyes again.

He was lying on top of the blankets. She walked around to the opposite side of the bed, pulled the covers up and over him, folding him in like a massive taco.

“Sleep as long as you need,” she said softly. She leaned down, dropped a small kiss on his forehead, and turned to leave.

“He was wrong about one thing,” Crane’s voice stopped her in the doorway.

“What was that?” Abbie turned.

“Not _everyone_ I care about is dead,” he said quietly, eyes still closed. “Thank you, Abbie. For… doing what you knew I could not.” He opened his eyes, and she saw they were wet with brimming tears. “For everything. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Ichabod. Get some sleep. Please.”

Abbie did not sleep that night. She laid on the couch, listening to make sure Crane slept, finally allowing her own tears to fall.

 

xXx

 

The year after War was put back into his grave was busy.Jenny woke up two days after Jeremy was subdued, suddenly and without explanation. Even she could not clarify how she returned.

Abbie suspected it had something to do with the change in Katrina’s status, but did not voice this thought.

Irving was released from jail with the help of Luke’s testimony and copies of Sheriff Corbin’s recordings (submitted with Jenny’s permission). The whole thing was hushed up, files were sealed, and the case was deemed “too weird to see the light of day.”

Crane’s broken heart mended in time, and he gradually returned to his normal demeanor: a curious mixture of gentleman, genius, and curmudgeon.

Crane and Abbie have settled into an easy sort of partnership, spending most of their waking hours together, even when not working. Often, Abbie stays at the cabin overnight, and has a small collection of clothing and other essentials stashed there. When they are apart, they are almost constantly texting one another (Crane, of course, now has his own smartphone).

They make an excellent team, their abilities complementing each other perfectly, and Abbie no longer doubts her role as a Witness. She knows, partnered with Crane, they are a strong, hopefully unbeatable pair. Jenny, Irving, and Luke are helpful, even critical to their fight at times, but the battle always comes down to Crane and Abbie. Abbie and Crane. They can predict each other’s movements, especially in battle. They often finish each other’s sentences. Abbie can order food for Crane without asking him what he wants, and vice versa. They shield one another from the suspicious glares of the other police officers and strange looks from passers-by.

Jenny teases them, calling them “co-dependent” with a roll of her eyes. Secretly, she wishes she had that kind of closeness with someone.

So, when Abbie tells Crane she has a date and won’t be able to have dinner with him, he is quite surprised. Shocked, really.

“A… date?” Crane asks, blinking incredulously at her while an unpleasant emotion uncoils in the pit of his stomach.

“You know, like courting,” she explains, unsure why she’s suddenly so uncomfortable.

“I am well aware of the definition of a ‘date,’ Miss Mills,” he says tersely. “I am merely surprised you would embark on such an endeavor, that is all.” He turns in his seat to retrieve a book from an overcrowded shelf to hide his frown.

“I am, too, to be honest. But… well, someone asked, so I thought, ‘Why not?’”

“‘Why not?’ I think we both know perfectly well why not,” he says. “Or are you choosing to set aside our mission so you can…” he falters a moment, his fingers flexing as he finds the correct term, “…see if Detective Ramsey has ‘game’?”

Abbie stares, not believing what she’s hearing. “First, _never_ use that term again. Second, how _dare_ you? I would _never_ set aside our mission! Damn it, Crane, I thought you knew me better than that.”

“Abbie…” he starts, immediately remorseful. He knew he’d spoken out of turn the moment the words were out of his mouth, but he couldn’t stop them.

She stands, holding up her hands. “No. Save it. If there’s a demon, call me. Otherwise, I’m going to go to dinner with Detective Ramsey. I’m going to order steak and have a glass of wine, and _maybe_ I’ll even have dessert!”

Crane looks up at her from his seat, and suddenly, he knows why he is so agitated. As she stands over him, her hands on her hips, eyes flashing, nostrils flared, lips parted, it’s like he’s seeing her with new eyes.

 _She’s beautiful. Even angry with me, she is breathtaking._ He takes in the deep brown of her wide eyes with their impossibly long, sooty lashes, straight nose, flawless skin, and full lips that suddenly look quite irresistible. His eyes follow the column of her long, graceful neck and rest for the briefest moment on her full breasts, now heaving slightly.

“Crane.”

His eyes snap to her face. He suppresses the urge to stand, pull her into his embrace, and kiss her until she forgets all about her date. Or any other man.

“Forgive me. It… how you spend your free time is not my business. I… do not know what came over me just now,” he says softly. _You know exactly what came over you just now. Jealousy._

“Look,” Abbie says, deflating some as her anger dissipates, “I’m sorry. I should have told you Tuesday, when he asked me, but I…”

“Tuesday?” he asks. _Why did she wait three days?_

“Yeah. It just felt… strange… telling you I had a date…” she says, sitting down again. She looks across at him.

 _I’ve never really let myself notice how handsome he actually is._ The way his hair falls in soft waves around his face, his broad, smooth forehead decorated with those expressive eyebrows. The kindest, wisest eyes she’s ever seen. Even the beard is attractive on him.

“Miss Mills?”

“Oh. Um. Yeah. So… I’m gonna go on this date, and… well, I’ll see how it goes. It may go nowhere. But… I’m tired of having no life outside of chasing demons and saving the world. It’s selfish, but… I’d like to have a _little_ fun while I’m still young.”

She reaches across and puts her hand over his. He turns his hand, holding hers, his thumb reflexively stroking her knuckles.

“Enjoy yourself, Abbie,” he says, forcing a small smile. _I wish you wouldn’t go. But, I cannot stop you. You are not mine to keep._

She stares at their hands, noting the contrast in color and how his hand is twice the size of hers. Yet, despite those differences, despite _their_ differences, it feels… right.

“I’ll try,” she answers, smiling back with a smile she knows does not reach her eyes. _Ask me not to go. Ask me to stay because you_ want _me to stay and nothing else._

He reluctantly releases her hand.

“Do you need a ride back to the cabin first?” she asks, standing again. She glances at her hand, noticing how cold it is now that it is not clasped in his.

“I can ask Captain Irving or Detective Morales to transport me home,” he answers. “Hmm. When you first informed me you were going on a date, I immediately assumed it would be with Morales, not Ramsey.”

She chuckles. “Luke and I are so done. He’s actually dating some girl he met at the gym. She’s a nurse or a radiologist or something.”

“Ah. How nice for him. How well do you know this Detective Ramsey?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Don’t even start, Crane.He’s fine. He’s only been here a couple months, so he hasn’t been around long enough to know how weird I really am,” she says, grinning.

He smiles a half smile, and watches her exit. He leans back in his chair with a long sigh, contemplating the heaviness of his heart.

 

xXx

 

Crane is reading by the fire when the knock comes. Attempting to read. He glances at his clock. 9:30. He marks the page he’s been staring at for the last 15 minutes and sets it aside to answer the door.

“Miss Mills,” he says, surprised. She hasn’t actually knocked on his door in months; usually, she just lets herself in. He looks at her, and her face gives away nothing. “Please, come in,” he adds, recovering his manners.

“Thank you,” Abbie demurely says, entering. It’s warm inside the cabin, and she shrugs her coat off. He takes it and lays it across a chair.

She’s wearing a dress. A red dress. A clingy, red dress that accentuates her curves in all the right ways. In over two years, he’s never seen her in a dress. She looks lovely.

“Forgive me, but should you not still be on your date?” he asks, forcing his eyes to stay on her face.

“Can we sit?”

“Of course,” he says, stepping aside to allow her to pass. She sits on the couch and slips her feet out of her shoes.

“Uncomfortable,” she mutters as he glances at her small, perfect toes. “The date is over,” she declares with no preamble.

“Did it not go well?” he asks, still caught off balance by her unexpected presence and appearance.

“It was… fine. He’s very nice. Smart. Polite. Funny…” she says, looking at her hands, folded in her lap. “The food was good.”

“Steak?”

“Cheese tortellini Alfredo.”

“My favorite,” he whispers. He’s been a nut for Italian food since he first tried it.

Abbie introduced him to it.

“I know.”

“Abbie, what is it you’re not telling me? I assume if your date had been good, you would still be with Detective Ramsey, not here with me.”

She sighs and looks up at him, swallows, and looks back down at her hands. “That’s just it, Crane. The whole time I was with Will… I was… thinking about you.” She looks up again. “Wishing I was with you instead.”

Crane’s lips part with a small gasp. _Is she saying what I think she is saying?_ “I—”

“It’s okay if you don’t feel the same,” she whispers. “I was… surprised, too…”

“Abbie,” he says, reaching over to take her hand in his. “Oh, Abbie, I…” He lifts her hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles. “I am… overjoyed your date was unsuccessful,” he finally says, a small, hopeful smile on his face.

“What?”

“I _am_ sorry your evening did not go as planned, but… I am not sorry about the reason. Not at all.” He turns her hand and kisses the inside of her wrist, on her pulse point.

“So, you mean…” she asks softly, eyes wide.

“Yes, Abbie. I was devastated to hear of your plans this evening,” he says. He kisses her hand during pauses in his speech, and when his lips connect with her palm, she gasps slightly. “I did not want you to go out with Detective Ramsey. Not at all.” He kisses her thumb.

Abbie looks up at him, stupefied. “Why didn’t you say something?” she asks, gently extracting her hand from his, a little stung by his admission. As soon as her hand is free, she immediately wishes she’d let him keep it. Her hand is cold now, and she misses the touch of his lips on her skin.

He frowns and looks away, unsure how to respond. “Would it have made a difference?”

“Yes,” she quietly admits.

He raises an eyebrow. “Truly?”

“Well, I didn’t fully realize that my feelings of uncertainty about the date were tied to you until I found myself ordering all your favorite things,” she explains.  


He smiles sadly and sighs. “I did not say anything because your happiness is of utmost importance to me, Abbie. If Detective Ramsey could make you happy, who was I to stand in the way? I had to let you find out. I had to let you go.”

“‘If you love someone, set them free,’” Abbie whispers, staring at the fire.

“‘If they return, they are yours,’” Crane finishes the quote, slowly reaching for her hand again.

Abbie looks at him, surprised. He kisses her hand. “All I do is read, Miss Mills,” he says by way of explanation. “And I do believe the sentiment is also expressed in a song by Mr. Sting.”

She chuckles, remembering that while Crane likes Sting’s music very much, he insists on referring to him as “Mr. Sting” because he refuses to accept the concept of any person being so important they are addressed by only one name. He does the same with Madonna, Bono, and Cher.

Crane moves closer to Abbie, reaching out with his free hand to tentatively touch her face. _She looks even more beautiful by firelight._

“Crane… Ichabod,” Abbie says, leaning into his touch. Her eyes close as he strokes her cheek. “Do you…” she pauses, opening her eyes, “ _do_ you love me?”

He leans down and softly kisses her lips. “You have returned to me. Does that mean you are mine, Abbie?” he whispers, his face hovering inches from hers. He touches the end of her nose with his.

“Yes,” she whispers, tilting her chin up to kiss him.

His hand slides from her cheek to gently cradle the back of her head, the same way he did when he bade her farewell in purgatory. He presses his lips more firmly against hers, taking control. He releases her hand to hold her waist, and her arms come up to his shoulders.

He slips his tongue forward, parting his lips over hers, coaxing her to do the same. She does so immediately, meeting his probing tongue with hers. He groans, and her hands slide down his chest and around his back, her fingers clutching his shirt.

Crane gently releases her lips, pulling away slightly. “I _do_ love you, Abbie,” he says, his voice low. “I love you,” he repeats, kissing her.

“I love you, too, Ichabod. Actually, I think I have for a while…” She reaches up and smoothes his unbound hair away from his face.

“How blind we both were,” he chuckles, kissing her forehead.

“We were busy,” she says, smiling.

“Indeed,” he agrees. He wraps his arms around her and pulls her into a tight hug. She tucks her head under his chin and squeezes him back.

“You look beautiful, Abbie. I wanted to tell you the moment I saw you this evening.” He leans back and looks down at her. “Honestly, you are always beautiful. But, this dress… your hair… you are an exquisite woman, Miss Mills.”

“Thank you,” she says shyly, not used to such praise. “Would it be weird if I said I find you beautiful, too?” she asks, cupping his face between hers, rubbing her thumbs along his cheeks, familiarizing her palms with the feel of his beard.

“Not at all,” he smiles. It’s a full, true smile, one Abbie doesn’t often see. It’s sweet, almost bashful, and transforms his usually-serious face.

Abbie kisses his smiling lips, her heart full of him. “I suppose we’re kind of past the point of worrying about ‘weird,’ aren’t we?” she asks, grinning.

“Our definition of ‘weird’ likely differs from most, that much is certain,” he agrees.

They sit together for several minutes, holding one another, occasionally kissing.

“I’d really like to get out of this dress,” Abbie says after a while.

“Pardon me?”

She laughs. “I’d like to change clothes, Crane,” she explains. “It may look good, but it’s not meant for long-term wearing. At least, not by me.”

“Ah, I see,” he says, releasing her from his embrace. He doesn’t know if he’s relieved or disappointed. He does know his expectations for courtship will likely need to shift to fall more in line with Abbie’s. _Perhaps some sort of compromise can be reached…_

“I’m staying over, obviously,” she calls from his room, the door open just a crack while she changes. There is only one bedroom in the cabin. Usually, when she stays over, she crashes on the couch, claiming it’s quite comfortable. Crane would never fit anyway.

She opens the door but does not return to the living room, standing at the threshold in shorts and a tank top. Clothing he found scandalous at first. “You coming?”

“Abbie, I…”

“Just to sleep, Crane. I’m not ready to make that step yet, either. But, my days of sleeping on that lumpy couch are over,” she says.

Crane stands. “Lumpy? But, you said…”

“I know what I said, and you know why I said it,” she says, smiling.

He sighs, knowing exactly why. He never would have allowed her to sleep on the couch had he known she found it lumpy. He would have insisted she have the bed. “Let me tend the fire, and I will join you shortly.” He turns and spreads the coals in the fireplace and makes certain all the flames are gone.

She’s sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling her hair back, when he enters the bedroom. “I’ll just… go change,” he says quietly, grabbing a t-shirt and a pair of soft cotton shorts from a drawer before disappearing into the bathroom.

“If this is going to make you uncomfortable, I can go back to the couch,” Abbie calls through the closed door. While Crane was banking the fire, she had realized that even something as seemingly innocent as sleeping beside someone in the same bed might be a step too far. “It’s not _that_ lumpy,” she adds.

Crane reappears, his clothes a neatly-folded pile in his hands. “You will not be returning to the couch,” he declares, setting his clothing on top of the dresser. “I will admit, I was not prepared to sleep beside you, but I think it will be quite nice.” It’s been too long since he slept holding a warm, soft body in his arms.

“You’re sure?” she asks.

“Yes,” he answers, bending down to kiss her.

They slip between the sheets, Crane pulling Abbie into his arms. He kisses her forehead. She tilts her face up to his, and he kisses her lips.

“This is most agreeable,” he says.

“Mmm,” she nods, tucking her head under his chin again. She kisses his neck, drawing a small groan from his throat.

“I love you, Abbie,” he murmurs into her hair.

“I love you, Ichabod. Good night.”

“Good night, my love.”

Their eyes grow heavy, and they drift off to sleep.

Together.

**Author's Note:**

> This group of one-shots is based on a song cycle I came across at my job called “I Will Breathe a Mountain” by William Bolcom. It’s a set of 11 songs that uses, as its lyrics, the works of women poets. I liked the poems and thought they would make an interesting set of fics.


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